A Duet

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'You will excuse the dressing-gown, Frank.'

'I just love you in it. No, you mustn't pass. Now you can go.'

'I was so afraid that you would breakfast without me that I had no
time to dress. I shall have the whole day to finish in when you are
gone. There now--Jemima has forgotten to warm the plates again! And
your coffee is cold. I wish you had not waited.'

'Better cold coffee with Maude's society.'

'I always thought men gave up complimenting their wives after they
married them. I am so glad you don't. I think on the whole that
women's ideas of men are unfair and severe. The reason is that the
women who have met unpleasant men run about and make a noise, but the
women who are happy just keep quiet and enjoy themselves. For
example, I have not time to write a book explaining to every one how
nice Frank Crosse is; but if he were nasty my life would be empty,
and so of course I should write my book.'

'I feel such a fraud when you talk like that.'

'That is part of your niceness.'

'Oh don't, Maude! It really hurts me.'

'Why, Frank, what is the matter with you to-day?'

'Nothing, dear.'

'Oh yes, there is. I can tell easily.'

'Perhaps I am not quite myself.'

'No, I am sure that you are not. I believe that you have a cold
coming on. O Frank, do take some ammoniated quinine.'

'Good heavens, no!'

'Please! Please!'

'My dear girlie, there is nothing the matter with me.'

'But it is such splendid stuff.'

'Yes, I know. But really I don't want it.'

'Have you had any letters, Frank?'

'Yes, one.'

'Anything important?'

'I have hardly glanced at it yet.'

'Glance at it now.'

'Oh, I will keep it for the train. Good-bye, dearest. It is time
that I was off.'

'If you would only take the ammoniated quinine. You men are so proud
and obstinate. Good-bye, darling. Eight hours, and then I shall
begin to live again.'

He had a quiet corner of a carriage to himself, so he unfolded his
letter and read it. Then he read it again with frowning brows and
compressed lips. It ran in this way -

My Dearest Frankie,--I suppose that I should not address you like
this now that you are a good little married man, but the force of
custom is strong, and, after all, I knew you long before she did. I
don't suppose you were aware of it, but there was a time when I could
very easily have made you marry me, in spite of all you may know
about my trivial life and adventures, but I thought it all over very
carefully, and I came to the conclusion that it was not good enough.
You were always a dear good chap yourself, but your prospects were
not quite dashing enough for your festive Violet. I believe in a
merry time even if it is a short one. But if I had really wanted to
settle down in a humdrum sort of way, you are the man whom I should
have chosen out of the whole batch of them. I hope what I say won't
make you conceited, for one of your best points used to be your
modesty.

But for all that, my dear Frankie, I by no means give you up
altogether, and don't you make any mistake about that. It was only
yesterday that I saw Charlie Scott, and he told me all about you, and
gave me your address. Don't you bless him? And yet I don't know.
Perhaps you have still a kindly thought of your old friend, and would
like to see her.

But you are going to see her whether you like or not, my dear boy, so
make up your mind to that. You know how you used to chaff me about
my whims. Well, I've got a whim now, and I'll have my way as usual.
I am going to see you to-morrow, and if you won't see me under my
conditions in London, I shall call at Woking in the evening. Oh my
goodness, what a bombshell! But you know that I am always as good as
my word. So look out!

Now I'll give you your orders for the day, and don't you forget them.
To-morrow (Thursday, 14th, no excuses about the date) you will leave
your office at 3.30. I know that you can when you like. You will
drive to Mariani's, and you will find me at the door. We shall go up
to our old private room, and we shall have tea together, and a dear
old chat about all sorts of things. So come! But if you don't,
there is a train which leaves Waterloo at 6.10 and reaches Woking at
7. I will come by it and be just in time for dinner. What a joke it
will be!

Good-bye, old boy! I hope your wife does not read your letters, or
this will rather give her fits.

- Yours as ever, VIOLET WRIGHT.

At the first reading this letter filled him with anger. To be wooed
by a very pretty woman is pleasant even to the most austere of
married men (and never again trust the one who denies it), but to be
wooed with a very dangerous threat mixed up with the wooing is no
such pleasant experience. And it was no empty threat. Violet was a
woman who prided herself upon being as good as her word. She had
laughingly said with her accustomed frankness upon one occasion that
it was her sole remaining virtue. If he did not go to Mariani's, she
would certainly come to Woking. He shuddered to think of Maude being
annoyed by her. It was one thing to speak in a general way to his
wife of prematrimonial experiences, and it was another to have this
woman forcing herself upon her and making a scene. The idea was so
vulgar. The sweet, pure atmosphere of The Lindens would never be the
same again.

No, there was no getting out of it. He must go to Mariani's. He was
sufficiently master of himself to know that no harm could come of
that. His absolute love for his wife shielded him from all danger.
The very thought of infidelity nauseated him. And then, as the idea
became more familiar to him, other emotions succeeded that of anger.
There was an audacity about his old flame, a spirit and devilment,
which appealed to his sporting instincts. Besides, it was
complimentary to him, and flattering to his masculine vanity, that
she should not give him up without a struggle. Merely as a friend it
would not be disagreeable to see her again. Before he had reached
Clapham Junction his anger had departed, and by the time that he
arrived at Waterloo he was surprised to find himself looking forward
to the interview.

Mariani's is a quiet restaurant, famous for its lachryma christi
spumante, and situated in the network of sombre streets between Drury
Lane and Covent Garden. The fact of its being in a by-street was not
unfavourable to its particular class of business. Its customers were
very free from the modern vice of self-advertisement, and would even
take some trouble to avoid publicity. Nor were they gregarious or
luxurious in their tastes. A small, simple apartment was usually
more to their taste than a crowded salon, and they were even prepared
to pay a higher sum for it.

It was five minutes to four when Frank arrived, and the lady had not
yet appeared. He stood near the door and waited. Presently a hansom
rattled into the narrow street, and there she sat framed in its
concavity. A pretty woman never looks prettier than in a hansom,
with the shadows behind to give their Rembrandt effect to the face in
front. She raised a yellow kid hand, and flashed a smile at him.

'Just the same as ever,' said she, as he handed her down.

'So are you.'

'So glad you think so. I am afraid I can't quite agree with you.
Thirty-four yesterday. It's simply awful. Thank you, I have some
change. All right, cabby. Well, have you got a room?'

'No.'

'But you'll come?'

'Oh yes, I should like to have a chat.'

The clean-shaven, round-faced manager, a man of suave voice and
diplomatic manner, was standing in the passage. His strange life was
spent in standing in the passage. He remembered the pair at once,
and smiled paternally.

'Not seen you for some time, sir!'

'No, I have been engaged.'

'Married,' said the lady.

'Dear me!' said the proprietor. 'Tea, sir?'

'And muffins. You used to like the muffins.'

'Oh yes, muffins by all means.'

'Number ten,' said the proprietor, and a waiter showed them upstairs.
'All meals nine shillings each,' he whispered, as Frank passed him at
the door. He was a new waiter, and so mistook every one for a new
customer, which is an error which runs through life.

It was a dingy little room with a round table covered by a soiled
cloth in the middle. Two windows, discreetly blinded, let in a dim
London light. An armchair stood at each side of the empty fireplace,
and an uncomfortable, old-fashioned, horsehair sofa lined the
opposite wall. There were pink vases upon the mantelpiece, and a
portrait of Garibaldi above it.

The lady sat down and took off her gloves. Frank stood by the window
and smoked a cigarette. The waiter rattled and banged and jingled
with the final effect of producing a tea-tray and a hot-water dish.
'You'll ring if you want me, sir,' said he, and shut the door with
ostentatious completeness.

'Now we can talk,' said Frank, throwing his cigarette into the
fireplace. 'That waiter was getting on my nerves.'

'I say, I hope you're not angry.'

'What at?'

'Well, my saying I should come down to Woking, and all that.'

'I should have been angry if I thought you had meant it.'

'Oh, I meant it right enough.'

'But with what object?'

'Just to get level with you, Frankie, if you threw me over too
completely. Hang it all, she has three hundred and sixty-five days
in the year! Am I to be grudged a single hour?'

'Well, Violet, we won't quarrel about it. You see I came all right.
Pull up your chair and have some tea.'

'You haven't even looked at me yet. I won't take any tea until you
do.'

She stood up in front of him, and pushed up her veil. It was a face
and a figure worth looking at. Hazel eyes, dark chestnut hair, a
warm flush of pink in her cheeks, the features and outline of an old
Grecian goddess, but with more of Juno than of Venus, for she might
perhaps err a little upon the side of opulence. There was a
challenge and defiance dancing in those dark devil-may-care eyes of
hers which might have roused a more cold-blooded man than her
companion. Her dress was simple and dark, but admirably cut. She
was clever enough to know that a pretty woman should concentrate
attention upon herself, and a plain one divert it to her adornments.

'Well?'

'By Jove, Violet, you look splendid.'

'Well?'

'The muffins are getting cold.'

'Frankie, what IS the matter with you?'

'Nothing is the matter.'

'Well?'

She put out her two hands and took hold of his. That well-remembered
sweet, subtle scent of hers rose to his nostrils. There is nothing
more insidious than a scent which carries suggestions and
associations. 'Frankie, you have not kissed me yet.'

She turned her smiling face upwards and sideways, and for an instant
he leaned forward towards it. But he had himself in hand again in a
moment. It gave him confidence to find how quickly and completely he
could do it. With a laugh, still holding her two hands, he pushed
her back into the chair by the table.

'There's a good girl!' said he. 'Now we'll have some tea, and I'll
give you a small lecture while we do so.'

'You are a nice one to give lectures.'

'Oh, there's no such preacher as a converted sinner.'

'You really are converted then?'

'Rather. Two lumps, if I remember right. You ought to do this, not
I. No milk, and very strong--how you keep your complexion I can't
imagine. But you do keep it; my word, you do! Now please don't look
so crossly at me.'

Her flushed cheeks and resentful eyes had drawn forth the
remonstrance.

'You ARE changed,' she said, with surprise as well as anger in her
voice.

'Why, of course I am. I am married.'

'For that matter Charlie Scott is married.'

'Don't give Charlie Scott away.'

'I think I give myself away. So you have lost all your love for me.
I thought it was to last for ever.'

'Now, do be sensible, Violet.'

'Sensible! How I loathe that word! A man only uses it when he is
going to do something cold-blooded and mean. It is always the
beginning of the end.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'I want you to be my own Frankie--just the same as before. Ah do,
Franck--don't leave me! You know I would give any of them up for
you. And you have a good influence over me--you have really! You
call't think how hard I am with other people. Ask Charlie Scott. He
will tell you. I've been so different since I have lost sight of
you. Now, Frankie, don't be horrid to me! Kiss and be nice!' Again
her soft warm hand was upon his, and the faint sweet smell of violets
went to his blood like wine. He jumped up, lit another cigarette,
and paced about the room.

'You shan't have a cigarette, Frankie.'

'Why not?'

'Because you said once it helped you to control yourself. I don't
want you to control yourself. I want you to feel as I feel.'

'Do sit down, like a good girl!'

'Cigarette out!'

'Don't be absurd, Violet!'

'Come, out with it, sir.'

'No, no, leave it alone!'

She had snatched it from his lips and thrown it into the grate.

'What is the use of that? I have a case full.'

'They shall all follow the first.'

'Well, then, I won't smoke.'

'I'll see that you don't.'

'Well, what the better are you for that?'

'Now, be nice.'

'Go back to your chair and have some more tea.'

'Oh, bother the tea!'

'Well, I won't speak to you unless you sit down and behave yourself.'

'There now! Speak away.'

'Look here, dear Violet, you must not talk about this any more. Some
things are possible and some are impossible. This is absolutely,
finally impossible. We can never go back upon the past. It is
finished and done with.'

'Then what did you come here for?'

'To bid you good-bye.'

'A Platonic good-bye.'

'Of course.'

'In a private room at Mariani's.'

'Why not?'

She laughed bitterly.

'You were always a little mad, Frankie.'

He leaned earnestly over the table.

'Look here, Violet, the chances are that we shall never meet again.'

'It takes two to say that.'

'Well, I mean that after to-day I should not meet you again. If you
were not quite what you are it would be easier. But as it is I find
it a little too much of a test. No, don't mistake me or think that I
am weakening. That is impossible. But all the same I don't want to
go through it again.'

'So sorry if I have upset you.'

He disregarded her irony.

'We have been very good friends, Violet. Why should we part as
enemies?'

'Why should we part at all?'

'We won't go back over that. Now do please look facts in the face
and help me to do the right thing, for it would be so much easier if
you would help me. If you were a very good and kind girl you would
shake my hand, like any other old pal, and wish me joy of my
marriage. You know that I should do so if I knew that you were going
to be married.'

But the lady was not to be so easily appeased. She took her tea in
silence or answered his remarks with monosyllables, while the
occasional flash of her dark eyes as she raised them was like the
distant lightning which heralds the storm. Suddenly, with a swift
rustle of skirts, she was between the door and his chair.

'Now, Frankie, we have had about enough of this nonsense,' said she.
'Don't imagine that you are going to get out of this thing so easily.
I've got you, and I'll keep you.'

He faced round in his chair and looked helplessly at her with a hand
upon each knee.

'O Lord! Don't begin it all over again,' said he.

'No, I won't,' she answered with an angry laugh. 'I'll try another
line this time, Master Frank. I'm not the sort of woman who lets a
thing go easily when once I have set my heart upon it. I won't try
coaxing any longer--'

'So glad,' he murmured.

'You may say what you like, but you can't do it, my boy. I knew you
before she did, and I'll keep you, or else I'll make such a row that
you will be sorry that you ever put my back up. It's all very fine
to sit there and preach, but it won't do, Frankie. You can't slip
out of things as easily as all that.'

'Why should you turn nasty like this, Violet? What do you think you
will gain by it?'

'I mean to gain YOU. I like you, Frankie. I'm not sure that I don't
really love you--real, real love, you know. Any way, I don't intend
to let you go, and if you go against my will I give you my word that
I shall make it pretty sultry for you down at Woking.'

He stared moodily into his teacup.

'Besides, what rot it all is!' she continued, laying her hand upon
his shoulder. 'When did you begin to ride the high moral horse? You
were just as cheerful as the rest of them when last I saw you. You
speak as if a man ceased to live just because he is married. What
has changed you?'

'I'll tell you what has changed me,' said he, looking up. 'My wife
has changed me.'

'Oh, bother your wife!'

A look which was new to her came over his face.

'Stop that!' said he sharply.

'Oh, no harm! How has your wife made this wonderful change?'

His mood softened as his thoughts flew back to Woking.

'By her own goodness--the atmosphere that she makes round her. If
you knew how wholesome she was, how delicate in her most intimate
thoughts, how fresh and how sweet and how pure, you would understand
that the thought of being false to her is horrible. When I think of
her as she sat at breakfast this morning, so loving and so innocent--
'

He would have been more discreet if he had been less eloquent. The
lady's temper suddenly overflowed.

'Innocent!' she cried. 'As innocent as I am.'

He sprang to his feet with eyes which were more angry than her own.

'Hold your tongue! How dare you talk against my wife! You are not
fit to mention her name.'

'I'll go to Woking,' she gasped.

'You can go to the devil!' said he, and rang the bell for his bill.
She stared at him with a surprise which had eclipsed her anger, while
she pulled on her gloves with little sharp twitches. This was a new
Frank Crosse to her. As long as a woman gets on very well with a
man, she is apt, at the back of her soul, to suspect him of weakness.
It is only when she differs from him that she can see the other side,
and it always comes as a surprise. She liked him better than ever
for the revelation.

'I'm not joking,' she whispered, as they went down the stair. 'I'll
go, as sure as fate.'

He took no notice, but passed on down the street without a word of
farewell. When he came to the turning he looked back. She was
standing by the curb, with her proud head high in the air, while the
manager screamed loudly upon a whistle. A cab swung round a distant
corner. Crosse reached her before it did.

'I hope I haven't hurt your feelings,' said he. 'I spoke too
roughly.'

'Trying to coax me away from Woking,' she sneered. 'I'm coming all
the same.'

'That's your affair,' said he, as he handed her into the cab.

CHAPTER XIX--DANGER

Again the bright little dining-room, with the morning sun gleaming
upon the high silver coffee pot and the electro-plated toast-rack--
everything the same, down to the plates which Jemima had once again
forgotten to warm. Maude, with the golden light playing upon the
fringes of her curls, and throwing two little epaulettes of the
daintiest pink across her shoulders, sat in silence, glancing across
from time to time with interrogative eyes at her husband. He ate his
breakfast moodily, for he was very ill at ease. There was a struggle
within him, for his conscience was pulling him one way and his
instincts the other. Instincts are a fine old conservative force,
while conscience is a thing of yesterday, so it is usually safe to
prophesy which will sway the other.

The matter at issue was whether he should tell Maude about Violet
Wright. If she were going to carry out her threat, then certainly it
would be better to prepare her. But after all, his arguments of
yesterday might prevail with her when her first impetuous fit of
passion was over. Why should he go half-way to meet danger? If it
came, nothing which he could say would ward it off. If it did not
come, there was no need for saying anything. Conscience told him
that it would be better to be perfectly straight with his wife.
Instinct told him that though she would probably be sweet and
sympathetic over it, yet it would rankle in her mind and poison her
thoughts. And perhaps for once, Instinct may have been better than
Conscience. Do not ask too many questions, you young wife! Do not
be too free with your reminiscences, you young husband. There are
things which can be forgiven, but never, never, can they be
forgotten. That highest thing on earth, the heart of a loving woman,
is too tender, too sacred, to be bruised by a wanton confidence. You
are hers. She is yours. The future lies with both of you. It is
wiser to leave the past alone. The couples who boast that they have
never had a secret are sometimes happy because the boast is sometimes
untrue.

'You won't be late to-day, Frank,' said Maude at last, peeping round
the tall coffee-pot.

'No, dear, I won't.'

'You were yesterday, you know.'

'Yes, I know I was.'

'Were you kept at the office?'

'No, I had tea with a friend.'

'At his house?'

'No, no, at a restaurant. Where has Jemima put my boots? I wonder
if she has cleaned them. I can never tell by looking. Here they
are. And my coat? Anything I can get you in town? Well, good-bye,
dear, good-bye!' Maude had never seen him make so hurried an exit.

It is always a mystery to the City man how his wife puts in the seven
hours a day of loneliness while the E.C. has claimed him for its own.
She cannot explain it to him, for she can hardly explain it to
herself. It is frittered away in a thousand little tasks, each
trivial in itself, and yet making in their sum the difference between
a well-ordered and a neglected household. Under the illustrious
guidance of the omniscient Mrs. Beeton there is the usual routine to
be gone through. The cook has to be seen, the larder examined, the
remains cunningly transformed into new and attractive shapes, the
dinner to be ordered (anything will do for lunch), and the new
supplies to be got in. The husband accepts the excellent little
dinner, the fried sole, the ris de veau en caisse, the lemon pudding,
as if they had grown automatically out of the table-cloth. He knows
nothing of the care, the judgment, the prevision which ring the
changes with every season, which never relax and never mistake. He
enjoys the fruits, but he ignores the work which raised them. And
yet the work goes cheerfully and uncomplainingly on.

Then when every preparation has been made for the dinner--that solemn
climax of the British day, there is plenty for Maude to do. There is
the white chiffon to be taken out of the neck of that dress, and the
pink to be put in. Amateur dressmaking is always going on at The
Lindens, and Frank has become more careful in his caresses since he
found one evening that his wife had a row of pins between her lips--
which is not a pleasant discovery to make with your own. Then there
are drawers to be tidied, and silver to be cleaned, and the leaves of
the gutta-percha plant to be washed, and the feather which was damped
yesterday to be re-curled before the fire. That leaves just time
before lunch to begin the new novel by glancing at the last two pages
to see what DID happen, and then the three minutes lunch of a lonely
woman. So much for business, now for the more trying social duties.
The pink dressing-gown is shed and a trim little walking dress--
French grey cloth with white lisse in front and a grey zouave jacket-
-takes its place. Visiting strangers is not nearly so hard when you
are pleased with your dress, and even entertaining becomes more easy
when your costumiere lives in Regent Street. On Tuesdays Maude is at
home. Every other day she hunts through her plate of cards, and is
overwhelmed by the sense of her rudeness towards her neighbours. But
her task is never finished, though day after day she comes back jaded
with her exertions. Strangers still call upon her--'hope it is not
too late to do the right thing, and to welcome,' etc., etc.--and they
have to be re-visited. While she is visiting them, other cards
appear upon her hall table, and so the foolish and tiresome
convention continues to exhaust the time and the energies of its
victim.

Those original receptions were really very difficult. Jemima
announced a name which might or might not bear some relation to the
visitor's. The lady entered. Her name might perhaps be Mrs. Baker.
Maude had no means of knowing who Mrs. Baker might be. The visitor
seldom descended to an explanation. Ten minutes of desultory and
forced conversation about pinewoods and golf and cremation. A cup of
tea and a departure. Then Maude would rush to the card-tray to try
to find out whom it was that she had been talking to, and what it was
all about.

Maude did not intend to go visiting that particular day, and she had
hoped that no one might visit her. The hours of danger were almost
past, and it was close upon four o'clock, when there came a brisk
pull at the bell.

'Mrs. White,' said Jemima, opening the drawing-room door.

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