V
THE IDEAL IN PERIL
The Faineant Club was going to the devil, which was unnecessary,considering the state of the weather. There was nobody about--includingWentworth Boyle. The magazines were uncut--cutting meant energy. Thetape machine ticked out nothing but cricket scores, in which I am notinterested. A waiter was sleeping in a chair in a remote corner, theonly suggestion of coolness about the place. There was absolutelynothing to do. It was too hot to swear.
I went to the window and looked out. Piccadilly was a glaring Sahara.The rows of horses across the way were limp as chewed string, and livedfor nothing but the next water-cart that should pass and drench theirburning hocks. The trees bore spiritlessly their burden of dust; and theonly energetic thing in sight was an impervious newsboy crying thefatalities of the heat-wave--a Song of Degrees.
I was in a fermenting state of discontent. The season had only justbegun, and there were at least six weeks of this to look forward to--sixweeks of hot, breathless theatres, and daily martyrdoms on the Row. Theseason was confounded rot. I had half a mind to throw the whole thingup. I went to the writing-table, wrote a complaint to the committee onthe iced drinks, murmured the prayer for rain, and returned to thewindow.
Why did the women look so cool when the men were in such a state ofcollapse? Millicent Dixon had just driven past, looking as fresh as abuttercup. I saw Millie Dixon twice a week on an average, and she alwaysdid look fresh. Yet she must be eight-and-twenty.
I determined to walk, if I could do so without risking a sunstroke. Thefirst parasol of my acquaintance that passed should be my refuge,provided the bearer were not too stout. I am stoutish myself.
A white gown was tripping--tripping!--towards the club window, which,from a certain trick of carriage, should belong to Mrs. LoringChatterton. I calculated my time carefully, and stepped from the clubawning to the shelter of the sunshade. Mrs. Loring is slight.
"My dear Mr. Butterfield, how do you do?"
"Thank you, my dear lady," I replied; "with a little basting I shall doto a turn."
"Oh! isn't it?" she said. "I never knew such heat in May. You must feelit terribly, Mr. Butterfield."
Now, I am not so stout as all that. Thirteen four, for a bachelorapproaching forty, and of personable height, is no extravagant riot offlesh.
"I admit to a certain warmth," I replied; "but when your own, permit meto say, somewhat meagre presence has ripened to a more generousnoontide, perhaps _you_ will resent any ostentatious sympathy on thesubject."
Mrs. Loring laughed. She always refused to take my dignity seriously. Toher I am not Rollo Butterfield, LL.D. (ceased to practise), but Mr.Butterfield, who may be allowed to see the children in bed, should hewish it, and who is sacrificed on the altar of intimacy to take in todinner nervous schoolgirls, and act as escort and general convenience inshopping expeditions.
"Well," said Mrs. Loring, "I don't think you ought to mind at your timeof life. Let me see, how much older than Loring are you?"
"Mrs. Loring Chatterton, perhaps you prefer to walk to Wilton Placealone?"
"It _must_ be rather hard on you," said this incorrigible lady,laughing.
I looked at the sunshade and at the glare that shone mercilessly on mypatent leathers. Decision of action was never my strong point, and thefirmest principles will soften at ninety-two in the shade. Icapitulated. Compromise beneath a parasol was better than dignity in thesun.
We walked along. By the exercise of much ingenuity in mapping out atrack that should consist of the maximum of shade, by the strategic useof large vans and the skirting of a person with a huge umbrella, whoseshadow was as that of a great rock in a thirsty land, we arrived atWilton Place, and, in response to Mrs. Loring's invitation to come andhave tea, I followed her in.
Mrs. Loring's drawing-room was cool as a cloister. I foundered on to asofa and closed my eyes, while my hostess, as a last impertinence,vapourised me in passing with a tiny scent fountain, and left me in aluxury of dim light.
Such a retreat, at my time of life, was very soothing. My meridian waspretty near the full, and I had a right to a drowsy siesta before facingagain the afternoon glow whose level rays would decline to the longevening. I lazily watched a fly that was spinning a soft drone in thetwilighted room, and blinked through my half-closed eyes at the fewwhite splashes of sunlight on the floor, vivid in the subdued tone.Bowls of flowers cooled the air with perfume, and the Genius of Restbrooded over the place. The afternoon with its business would come, nodoubt; but for the present this was my oasis.
Mrs. Loring reappeared in a tea-gown whose gossamer frothed daintilyabout her neck. She looked the pink of freshness--and yet she was withinthree years of thirty. I took a kind of pleasure in the thought. Loringwas a lucky man.
A tray was brought in, and this attentive lady fluttered round thelittle silver urn, and ministered to my _paresse_ with tea and lemon. Igrew humorously melancholy, and lapsed into gentle vistas ofreminiscence. I believe I sighed.
Mrs. Loring mentally referred the sigh to corpulence, for she came overwith tea, and said, "There, poor man. That will cool you."
I half rose from my reclining posture, and shook my head as I took thecup.
"No, madam," I said, "tea-leaves cannot allay the dust of memory. I sighfor what once was, for what might have been now. I sigh for Ten YearsBack. Do you ever sigh for Ten Years Back?"
From the puzzled way in which she looked at me, she evidently did not.
"Ten years back," I continued, "you and I were yet young."
She tried to look wrinkled.
"Ten years back you were interested in painting, and visited theNational Gallery. Millie Dixon was also interested in painting and alsovisited the National Gallery. Loring Chatterton didn't give a hang forpainting, yet he dragged me round to the National Gallery. I paid thesixpences."
"Anyway you were always glad enough to see Millie Dixon; you didn't doit out of pure self-sacrifice."
"The National Gallery," I continued, not heeding the interruption, "isone of the great storehouses of the world's art. It is the pride of agreat nation. _I_ went there for purposes of study; but how did _you_profit by it? You used it for rubbing shoulders and squeezing hands."
"I know how you profited by it," said Mrs. Loring, laughing. "You usedto study the water-colours down-stairs, and you got locked in one day.Millie Dixon, by the way, got locked in too."
"Millie Dixon always _had_ foresight," I said musingly.
"But you never painted, and Millie Dixon did."
"In spite of your insinuation, Mrs. Loring, I never ascertained that.Her complexion----"
"Then you ought to have done. Here are you two still hanging on in thesame position as ten years ago. _I_ gave Millicent a month if she knewher business. Loring and I didn't take so long. I am disappointed inyou. I'm sure it's not Millie's fault."
That was hardly fair. Millie had never thrown herself at me.
"If you'd made love to Millicent," she went on, "you'd not have been alonely fat old bachelor, living in a horrid flat, and wasting your timeat clubs and race meetings."
"Mrs. Loring Chatterton," I replied, "if I'd made love to Millicent Ishould have been just as--mature of outline, and should still have beena bachelor. It is my gift. I was born a bachelor. I should have said,'Miss Dixon, if you love me, let me remain a bachelor.' She would havesaid, 'As a bachelor you first loved me; be always my own bachelor.' Itis, alas! my single talent. I was made for singleness."
"Rubbish! You know you like Millicent."
"Dear madam, I like all ladies--as a garden of flowers, yet I cannotbring myself to pluck one."
"Then why do you sigh for ten years back?"
That is the worst of women--they have a way of being suddenly logicalwhen no one expects it of them. Mrs. Loring is a charming woman, but Imust be careful. One or two lapses into sentiment like this, and shewill have me married to Miss Dixon before I know where I am. But myweakness
was over. I pulled myself together.
A burning white spot of sunshine had been slowly crossing the floor inmy direction, had mounted the sofa, and was threatening to disturb myrepose. It brought back the hot streets and the stifling club, and wasinvading my sanctuary with vivid glare. I was moving along out of itsway when a bell rang.
"Oh! and the tea's cold!" said Mrs. Loring, with the first thought of ahostess. "I'll have to get some more in."
Miss Millicent Dixon entered unannounced.
"My Dear Molly," cried Miss Dixon, "if you love me, give me some tea.How do you do, Mr. Butterfield? Do you know, Moll, I have been rushingabout for two mortal hours trying to find a wedding present for MadgeBeaumont, and I haven't got one! Do help me--Mr. Butterfield----"
"Oh, don't ask him," Mrs. Loring struck in; "Mr. Butterfield's beengetting sentimental. Between ourselves, Millie, he came dangerously nearto a lucid interval. He's been sighing over a misspent life, and wishinghe were years younger."
"Is it announced yet, Mr. Butterfield?" inquired Millicentmischievously. "Who is she?"
"Promise to tell Millie before any one else, Mr. Butterfield," said Mrs.Loring.
The machinating married woman! No bachelor is safe with her. I saidnothing.
"Then it is true!" said Miss Dixon, "and I shall need two weddingpresents. Mr. Butterfield, the unassailable bachelor! I shall give you_Paradise Lost_, Mr. Butterfield."
"Ladies," I answered, "you are unfair. You catch me in a weak moment,suffering from sunstroke, and accuse me of good resolutions. Does myprevious bad character go for nothing? May I not have a half-hour'sweakness without hearing of it again? It is my first offence. Oh, howdifficult is the true Bachelor Ideal!"
"Then you are not engaged, Mr. Butterfield?" said Millicent.
"Not to my knowledge, Miss Dixon. I admit to a certain wavering. If itcomes again I will take you into my confidence; in the meantime we willdiscuss Miss Beaumont's wedding present."
We went into committee on the subject. I was still the CompleatBachelor.
But I had presentiments.