Patricia Brent, Spinster

  CHAPTER IV

  THE MADNESS OF LORD PETER BOWEN

  When Patricia awakened the next morning, it was with the feeling thatshe had suffered some terrible disappointment. As a child sheremembered experiencing the same sensation on the morning after sometragedy that had resulted in her crying herself to sleep. She openedher eyes and was conscious that her lashes were wet with tears.Suddenly the memory of the previous night's adventure came back to herwith a rush and, with an angry dab of the bedclothes, she wiped hereyes, just as the maid entered with the cup of early-morning tea shehad specially ordered.

  With inspiration she decided to breakfast in bed. She could not face awhole table of wide-eyed interrogation. "Oh, the cats!" she mutteredunder her breath. "I hate women!" Later she slipped out of the houseunobserved, with what she described to herself as a "morning after theparty" feeling. She was puzzled to account for the tears. What hadshe been dreaming of to make her cry?

  Every time the thought of her adventure presented itself, she put itresolutely aside. She was angry with herself, angry with the world,angry with one Lieutenant-Colonel Peter Bowen. Why, she could not haveexplained.

  "Oh, bother!" she exclaimed, as she made a fourth correction in thesame letter. "Going out is evidently not good for you, Patricia."

  She spent the day alternately in wondering what Bowen was thinking ofher, and deciding that he was not thinking of her at all. Finally,with a feeling of hot shame, she remembered to what thoughts she hadlaid herself open. Her one consolation was that she would never seehim again. Then, woman-like, she wondered whether he would make aneffort to see her. Would he be content with his dismissal?

  For the first time during their association, the rising politician wasconscious that his secretary was anxious to get off sharp to time. Atfive minutes to five she resolutely put aside her notebook, and bangedthe cover on to her typewriter. Mr. Bonsor looked up at this unwontedenergy and punctuality on Patricia's part, and with a tactful interestin the affairs of others that he was endeavouring to cultivate forpolitical purposes, he enquired:

  "Going out?"

  "No," snapped Patricia, "I'm going home."

  Mr. Bonsor raised his eyebrows in astonishment. He was a mild-manneredman who had learned the value of silence when faced by certain phasesof feminine psychological phenomena. He therefore made no comment; buthe watched his secretary curiously as she swiftly left the room.

  Jabbing the pins into her hat and throwing herself into her coat,Patricia was walking down the steps of the rising politician's house inEaton Square as the clock struck five. She walked quickly in thedirection of Sloane Square Railway Station. Suddenly she slackened herspeed. Why was she hurrying home? She felt herself blushing hotly,and became furiously angry as if discovered in some humiliating act.Then with one of those odd emotional changes characteristic of her, shesmiled.

  "Patricia Brent," she murmured, "I think a little walk won't do you anyharm," and she strolled slowly up Sloane Street and across the Park toBayswater.

  Her hand trembled as she put the key in the door and opened it. Shelooked swiftly in the direction of the letter-rack; but her eyes werearrested by two boxes, one very large and obviously from a florist. Astrange excitement seized her. "Were they----?"

  At that moment Miss Sikkum came out of the lounge simpering.

  "Oh, Miss Brent! have you seen your beautiful presents?"

  Then Patricia knew, and she became angry with herself on finding howextremely happy she was. Glancing almost indifferently at the labelsshe proceeded to walk upstairs. Miss Sikkum looked at her in amazement.

  "But aren't you going to open them?" she blurted out.

  "Oh! presently," said Patricia in an off-hand way, "I had no idea itwas so late," and she ran upstairs, leaving Miss Sikkum gazing afterher in petrified astonishment.

  That evening Patricia took more than usual pains with her toilette.Had she paused to ask herself why, she would have been angry.

  When she came downstairs, the other boarders were seated at the table,all expectantly awaiting her entrance. On the table, in the front ofher chair, were the two boxes.

  "I had your presents brought in here, Miss Brent," explained Mrs.Craske-Morton.

  "Oh! I had forgotten all about them," said Patricia indifferently, "Isuppose I had better open them," which she proceeded to do.

  The smaller box contained chocolates, as Mr. Bolton put it, "evidentlybought by the hundred-weight." The larger of the boxes was filled withan enormous spray-bunch of white and red carnations, tied with greensilk ribbon, and on the top of each box was a card, "With love fromPeter."

  Patricia's cheeks burned. She was angry, she told herself, yet therewas a singing in her heart and a light in her eyes that oddly beliedher. He had not forgotten! He had dared to disobey her injunction;for, she told herself, "good-bye" clearly forbade the sending offlowers and chocolates. She was unconscious that every eye was uponher, and the smile with which she regarded now the flowers, now thechocolates, was self-revelatory.

  Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe glanced significantly at Miss Wangle, who,however, was too occupied in watching Patricia with hawk-likeintentness to be conscious of anything but the quarry.

  Suddenly Patricia remembered, and her face changed. The flowers faded,the chocolates lost their sweetness and the smile vanished. The partedlips set in a firm but mobile line. What had before been a tribute nowbecame in her eyes an insult. Men sent chocolates and flowers to--to"those women"! If he respected her he would have done as she commandedhim, instead of which he had sent her presents. Oh! it was intolerable.

  "If I sent flowers and chocolates to a lady friend," said Mr. Bolton,"I should expect her to look happier than you do, Miss Brent."

  With an effort Patricia gathered herself together and with a forcedsmile replied, "Ah! Mr. Bolton, but you are different," which seemedto please Mr. Bolton mightily.

  She was conscious that everyone was looking at her in surprise notunmixed with disapproval. She was aware that her attitude was not theconventional pose of the happily-engaged girl. The situation wasstrange. Even Mr. Cordal was bestowing upon her a portion of hisattention. It is true that he was eating curry with a spoon, whichrequired less accuracy than something necessitating a knife and fork;still at meal times it was unusual of him to be conscious even of theexistence of his fellow-boarders.

  It was Gustave who relieved the situation by handing to Patricia atelegram on the little tray where the silver had long since given upthe unequal struggle with the base metal beneath. Patricia withassumed indifference laid it beside her plate.

  "The boy ees waiting, mees," insinuated Gustave.

  Patricia tore open the envelope and read: "May I come and see you thisevening dont say no peter."

  Patricia was conscious of her flushed face and she felt irritated ather own weakness. With a murmured apology to Mrs. Morton she rose fromthe table and went into the lounge where she wrote the reply: "Regretimpossible remember your promise," then she paused. She did not wantto sign her full name, she could not sign her Christian name shedecided, so she compromised by using initials only, "P.B." She tookthe telegram to the door herself, knowing that otherwise poor Gustave'slife would be a misery at the hands of Miss Wangle, Mrs.Mosscrop-Smythe and the others.

  "Why had she given the boy sixpence?" she asked herself as she slowlyreturned to the dining-room. Telegraph boys were paid. It wasridiculous to tip them, especially when they brought undesirablemessages. "Was the message undesirable?" someone within seemed toquestion. Of course it was, and she was very angry with Bowen for notdoing as she had commanded him.

  When Patricia returned to the table and proceeded with the meal, shewas conscious of the atmosphere of expectancy around her. Everybodywanted to know what was in the telegram.

  At last Miss Wangle enquired, "No bad news I hope, Miss Brent."

  Patricia looked up and fixed Miss Wangle with a deliberate stare, whichshe meant to be rude.

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; "None, Miss Wangle, thank you," she replied coldly.

  The dinner proceeded until the sweet was being served, when Gustaveapproached her once more.

  "You are wanted, mees, on the telephone, please," he said.

  Patricia was conscious once more of crimsoning as she turned toGustave. "Please say that I'm engaged," she said.

  Gustave left the dining-room. Everybody watched the door in a fever ofexpectancy.

  Two minutes later Gustave reappeared and, walking softly up toPatricia's chair, whispered in a voice that could be clearly heard byeveryone, "It ees Colonel Baun, mees. He wish to speak to you."

  "Tell him I'm at dinner," replied Patricia calmly. She could literallyhear the gasp that went round the table.

  "But, Miss Brent," began Mrs. Craske-Morton.

  Patricia turned and looked straight into Mrs. Craske-Morton's eyesinterrogatingly. Gustave hesitated. Mrs. Craske-Morton collapsed.Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe exchanged meaning glances. LittleMrs. Hamilton looked concerned, almost a little sad. Patricia turnedto Gustave.

  "You heard, Gustave?"

  "Yes, mees," replied Gustave and, turning reluctantly towards the door,he disappeared.

  There was something in Patricia's demeanour that made it clear shewould resent any comment on her action, and the meal continued insilence. Mr. Bolton made some feeble endeavours to lighten theatmosphere; but he was not successful.

  In the lounge a quarter of an hour later, Gustave once more approachedPatricia, this time with a note.

  "The boy ees waiting, mees," he announced.

  Patricia tore open the envelope and read:

  "DEAR PATRICIA,

  "Won't you let me see you? Please remember that even the under-dog hashis rights.

  "Yours ever, "PETER."

  "There is no answer, Gustave," said Patricia, and Gustave left the roomdisconsolately.

  Half an hour later Gustave returned once more.

  On his tray were three telegrams. Patricia looked about her wildly."Had the man suddenly gone mad?" she asked herself. "Tell the boy notto wait, Gustave," she said.

  "There ees three boys, mees."

  The atmosphere was electrical. Mr. Bolton laughed, then stoppedsuddenly. Miss Sikkum simpered.

  Patricia turned to Gustave with a calmness that was not reflected inher cheeks.

  "Tell the three boys not to wait, Gustave."

  "Yes, mees!" Gustave slowly walked to the door. It was clear that hecould not reconcile with his standard of ethics the allowing of threetelegrams to remain unopened, and to dismiss three boys without knowingwhether or no there really were replies. The same feeling wasreflected in the faces of Patricia's fellow-boarders.

  "Miss Brent must be losing a lot of relatives, or coming into a lot offortunes," remarked Mr. Bolton to Mrs. Hamilton.

  Patricia preserved an outward calm she was far from feeling. She roseand went up to her room to discover from the three orange envelopeswhat was the latest phase of Colonel Bowen's madness. Seated on herbed she opened the telegrams.

  The first read:

  "Will you go motoring with me on Sunday peter."

  No, she would do nothing of the kind.

  The second said:

  "If I have done anything to offend you please tell me and forgive mepeter."

  Of course he had done nothing, and it was all very absurd. Why was hebehaving like a schoolboy?

  The third was longer. It ran:

  "I so enjoyed last night it was the most delightful evening I havespent for many a day please do not be too hard upon me peter."

  This was a tactical error. It brought back to Patricia the wholeincident. It was utter folly to have placed herself in such animpossible position. Obviously Bowen knew nothing of women, or hewould not have made such a blunder as to remind her of what took placeon the previous night, unless--unless---- She hardly dare breathe thethought to herself. What if he thought her different from what sheactually was? Could he confuse her with those---- It was impossible!

  She was angry; angry with him, angry with herself, angry with theQuadrant Grill-room; but angriest of all with Galvin House, which hadprecipitated her into this adventure.

  Why did silly women expect every girl to marry? Why was it assumedbecause a woman did not marry that no one wanted to marry her?Patricia regarded herself in the looking-glass. Was she really thesort of girl who might be taken for an inveterate old maid? Her handsand feet were small. Her ankles well-shaped. Her figure had beenpraised, even by women. Her hair was a natural red-auburn. Herfeatures regular, her mouth mobile, well-shaped with very red lips.Her eyes a violet-blue with long dark lashes and eyebrows.

  "You're not so bad, Patricia Brent," she remarked as she turned fromthe glass. "But you will probably be a secretary to the end of yourdays, drink cold weak tea, keep a cat and get hard and angular, skinnymost likely. You're just the sort that runs to skin and bone."

  She was interrupted in her meditations by a knock at the door.

  "Come in," she called.

  The door was softly opened and Mrs. Hamilton entered.

  "May I come in, dear?" she enquired in an apologetic voice, as shestood on the threshold.

  "Come in!" cried Patricia, "why of course you may, you dear. You cando anything you like with me."

  Mrs. Hamilton was small and white and fragile, with a ray of sunlightin her soul. She invariably dressed in grey, or blue-grey. Everythingshe wore seemed to be as soft as her own expression.

  "I--I came up--I--I--hope it is not bad news. I don't want to meddlein your affairs, my dear; but I am concerned. If there is anything Ican do, you will tell me, won't you? You won't think me inquisitive,will you?"

  "Why you dear, silly little thing, of course I don't. Still it's justlike your sweet self to come up and enquire. It is only thatridiculous Colonel Bowen who is showering telegrams on me in this way,in order, I suppose, to benefit the revenue. I think he has gone mad.Perhaps it's shell-shock, poor thing. There will most likely beanother shower before we go to bed. Now we will go downstairs and stopthose old pussies talking."

  "My dear!" expostulated Mrs. Hamilton.

  Patricia laughed. "Yes, aren't I getting acid and spinsterish?"

  As they walked downstairs Mrs. Hamilton said:

  "I'm so anxious to see him, my dear. Miss Wangle says he is sodistinguished-looking."

  "Who?" enquired Patricia, with mock innocence.

  "Colonel Bowen, dear."

  "Oh! Yes, he's quite a decent-looking old thing, and he's given GalvinHouse something to talk about, hasn't he?"

  In the lounge Patricia soon became the centre of a group anxious forinformation; but no one was daring enough to put direct questions toher. Mrs. Craske-Morton ventured a suggestion that Colonel Bowen mightbe coming to dine with Patricia, and that she hoped Miss Brent wouldlet her know in good time, so that she might make special preparations.

  Patricia replied without enthusiasm. None was better aware than shethat had her fiance turned out to be a private, Mrs. Craske-Mortonwould have been the last even to suggest that he should dine at GalvinHouse. There would have been no question of special preparations.

  About ten o'clock Gustave entered and approached Patricia. She groanedin spirit.

  "You are wanted on the telephone, mees."

  Patricia thought she detected a note of reproach in his voice, as if hewere conscious that a fellow-male was being badly treated.

  "Will you say that I'm engaged?" replied Patricia.

  "It's Colonel Baun, mees."

  For a moment Patricia hesitated. She was conscious that Galvin Housewas against her to a woman. After all there were limits beyond whichit would be unwise to go. Galvin House had its standards, which hadalready been sorely tried. Patricia felt rather than heard thewhispered criticism passing between Miss Wangle and Mrs.Mosscrop-Smythe. Rising slowly with an air of reconciled martyrdom,Patricia went to the telephone at the end of the hall, followed by thes
miling Gustave, who, like the rest of Galvin House, had found hissense of decorum sorely outraged by Patricia's conduct.

  "Hullo!" cried Patricia into the mouthpiece of the telephone, her heartthumping ridiculously.

  Gustave walked tactfully away.

  "That you, Patricia?" came the reply.

  Patricia was conscious that all her anger had vanished.

  "Yes, who is speaking?"

  "Peter."

  "Yes."

  "How are you?"

  "Did you ring me up to ask after my health?"

  There was a laugh at the other end.

  "Well!" enquired Patricia, who knew she was behaving like a schoolgirl.

  "Did you get my message?"

  "I'm very angry."

  "Why?"

  "Because you've made me ridiculous with your telegrams, messenger-boys,and telephoning."

  "May I call?"

  "No."

  "I'm coming to-morrow night."

  "I shall be out."

  "Then I'll wait until you return."

  "Are you playing the game, do you think?"

  "I must see you. Expect me about nine."

  "I shall do nothing of the sort."

  "Please don't be angry, Patricia."

  "Well! you mustn't come, then. Thank you for the chocolates andflowers."

  "That's all right. Don't forget to-morrow at nine."

  "I tell you I shall be out."

  "Right-oh!"

  "Good-bye!"

  Without waiting for a reply, Patricia hung up the receiver.

  When she returned to the lounge her cheeks were flushed, and she wasfeeling absurdly happy. Then a moment after she asked herself what itwas to her whether he remembered or forgot her. He was an entirestranger--or at least he ought to be.

  Just as she was going up to her room for the night, another telegramarrived. It contained three words: "Good night peter."

  "Of all the ridiculous creatures!" she murmured, laughing in spite ofherself.