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 processof spring-cleaning, which his unexpected arrival had surprised infullest activity. But he did not mind that. He abode content amongrolled carpets, a swathed chandelier, piled chairs, and walls full ofpale rectangular spaces where pictures had been. Early thatmorning, after a brief night spent partly in bed and partly in erectcontemplation of his immediate past and his immediate future, he hadhurried back to his pianisto and his home--to the beings and thingsthat he knew and that knew 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 ranksof theatrical managers") for production at the new Regent Theatre. Andfurther that Mr. Machin intended to open with it. And still furtherthat his selection of such a play, which combined in the highestdegree the poetry of Mr. W.B. Yeats with the critical intellectualityof Mr. Bernard Shaw, was an excellent augury for London's dramaticfuture, and that the "upward movement" must on no account be thoughtto have failed because of the failure of certain recent ill-judgedattempts, by persons who did not understand their business, to forceit in particular directions. And still further that he, Edward Henry,had engaged for the principal part Miss Rose Euclid, perhaps thegreatest emotional actress the English-speaking peoples had ever had,but who unfortunately had not been sufficiently seen of late on theLondon stage, and that this would be her first appearance after herrecent artistic successes in the United States. And lastly that Mr.Marrier (whose name would be remembered in connection with ... etc.,etc.) was Mr. E.H. Machin's acting manager and technical adviser.Edward Henry could trace the hand of Marrier in all the paragraphs.Marrier had lost no time.
Mrs. Machin, senior, came into the drawing-room just as he wasadjusting the "Tannhaeuser" overture to the mechanician. The piece wasone of his major 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 andthe select and the intellectual and the poetic and the aristocratic;among the lah-di-dah and Kensingtonian accents; among rouged lips andblue hose and fixed simperings; in the centre of the universe. And hehad conducted himself with considerable skill accordingly. Nobody,on the previous night, could have guessed from the cut of his fancywaistcoat or the judiciousness of his responses to remarks aboutverse, that his wife often wore a white apron, or that his motherwas--the woman she was! He had not unskilfully caught many of thetricks of that metropolitan environment. But now they all fell awayfrom him, and he was just Edward Henry--nay, he was almost the oldDenry again.
"Who chose this mutton?" he asked as he bent over the juicy and richjoint and cut therefrom exquisite thick slices with a carving-knifelike a 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 thatin those grand hotels as you call 'em."
"We don't," said Edward Henry. First, it was true; and secondly, hewas anxious to be propitiatory, for he had a plan to further.
He looked at his wife. She was not talkative, but she had receivedhim in the hall with every detail of affection, if a littleabsent-mindedly owing to the state of the house. She had notbeen caustic, like his mother, about this male incursion intospring-cleaning. She had not informed the surrounding air that shefailed to understand why them as were in London couldn't stopin London for a bit, as his mother had. Moreover, though thespring-cleaning fully entitled her to wear a white apron at meals, shewas not wearing a white apron: which was a sign to him that she stillloved him enough to want to please him. On the whole he was fairlyoptimistic about his plan of salvation. Nevertheless, it was not untilnearly the end of the meal--when one of his mother's apple-pies wasbeing consumed--that he began to try to broach 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 Iwas talking 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 firsttime he had ever overtly spoken of the theatre in his mother'spresence. In the best bedroom he had talked of it--but even there witha certain self-consciousness and false casualness. Now, his motherstared straight in front of her with an expression of which she aloneamong human beings had the monopoly.
"I should like to," said Nellie, generously.
"Well," said he, "I've got to go back to town to-morrow. Wilt comewith me, lass?"
"Don't be silly, Edward Henry," said she. "How can I leave mother inthe middle of all this spring-cleaning?"
"You needn't leave mother. We'll take her too," said Edward Henry,lightly.
"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.You can 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 shortlyafterwards departed, brooding, to the offices of the Thrift Club.