The Melody of Death · Chapter 8 (2/2)

“I did not know that I did,” he said carelessly, “only somehow one doesn’t associate your mother with a broker. Yet I suppose she finds an agent necessary in these days. You see, he is my broker too.”

“Who else?” she asked.

“On my side of the family,” he said with mock solemnity, “I can think of nobody. What about your mother?”

“I could ask one or two nice people,” she went on, ignoring the suggestion.

“What about your mother?” he said again.

She looked up, her eyes filled with tears.

“Please do not be horrid,” she said. “You know that is impossible.”

“Not at all,” he answered cheerfully. “I made the suggestion in all good faith; I think it is a good one. After all, there is no reason why this absurd quarrel should go on. I admit I felt very sore with her; but then I even felt sore with you!”

He looked at her not unkindly.

“The soreness is gradually wearing away,” he said.

He spoke half to himself, though he looked at the girl. It seemed to her that he was trying to convince himself of something in which he did not wholly believe.

“It is extraordinary,” he said, “how little things, little worries, and petty causes for unhappiness disappear in the face of a really great trouble.”

“What is your great trouble?” she asked, quick to seize the advantage which he had given her in that unguarded moment.

“None,” he said. His tone was a little louder than usual, it was almost defiant. “I am speaking hypothetically.

“I have no trouble save the very obvious troubles of life,” he went on. “You were a trouble to me for quite a little time, but you are not any more.”

“I am glad you said that,” she said softly. “I want to be real good friends with you, Gilbert⁠—I want to be a real good friend to you. I have made rather a hash of your life, I’m afraid.”

She had risen from the table and stood looking down at him.

He shook his head.

“I do not think you have,” he said, “not the hash that you imagine. Other circumstances have conspired to disfigure what was a pleasant outlook. It is unfortunate that our marriage has not proved to be all that I dreamt it would be, but then dreams are very unstable foundations to the fabric of life. You would not think that I was a dreamer, would you?” he said quickly with that ready smile of his, those eyes that creased into little lines at the corners. “You would not imagine me as a romancist, though I am afraid I was.”

“You are, you mean,” she corrected.

He made no reply to that.

The question of the dinner came up later, when he was preparing to go out.

“You would not like to stay and talk it over, I suppose,” she suggested a little timidly.

He hesitated.

“There is nothing I should like better,” he said, “but”⁠—he looked at his watch.

She pressed her lips together, and for one moment felt a wave of unreasoning anger sweeping over her. It was absurd, of course, he always went out at this time, and there was really no reason why he should stay in.

“We can discuss it another time,” she said coldly, and left him without a further word.

He waited until he heard the door close in her room above, and then he went out with a little smile in which there were tears almost, but in which there was no merriment.

He left the house at a propitious moment; had he waited another five minutes he would have met his mother-in-law.

Mrs. Cathcart had made up her mind to “own up” and had come in person to make the confession. It was a merciful providence, so she told herself, that had taken Gilbert out of the way; that he had gone out she discovered before she had been in the house four minutes, and she discovered it by the very simple process of demanding from Gilbert’s servant whether his master was at home.

Edith heard of her mother’s arrival without surprise. She supposed that Mrs. Cathcart had come to hand the necklace to its lawful owner. She felt some pricking of conscience as she came down the stairs to meet her mother; had she not been unnecessarily brusque in her demand! She was a tender soul, and had a proper and natural affection for the elder woman. The fear that she might have hurt her feelings, and that that hurt might be expressed at the interview gave her a little qualm as she opened the drawing-room door.

Mrs. Cathcart was coolness itself. You might have thought that never a scene had occurred between these two women which could be remembered with unkindliness. No reference was made to the past, and Edith was glad.

It was not her desire that she should live on bad terms with her mother. She understood her too well, which was unfortunate for both, and it would be all the happier for them if they could maintain some pretence of friendship.

Mrs. Cathcart came straight to the point.

“I suppose you know why I have called,” she said, after the first exchange.

“I suppose you have brought the necklace,” said the girl with a smile. “You do not think I am horrid to ask for it, but I feel I ought to do something for Gilbert.”

“I think you might have chosen another subject for your first letter,” said the elder woman grimly, “but still⁠—”

Edith made no reply. It was useless to argue with her mother. Mrs. Cathcart had a quality which is by no means rare in the total of human possessions, the quality of putting other people in the wrong.

“I am more sorry,” Mrs. Cathcart resumed, “because I am not in a position to give you your necklace.”

The girl stared at her mother in wonder.

“Why! Whatever do you mean, mother?” she asked.

Mrs. Cathcart carefully avoided her eyes.

“I have had losses on the Stock Exchange,” she said. “I suppose you know that your father left us just sufficient to starve on, and whatever luxury and whatever comfort you have had has been due to my own individual efforts? I have lost a lot of money over Canadian Pacifics,” she said bluntly.

“Well?” asked the girl, wondering what was coming next, and fearing the worst.

“I made a loss of seven hundred pounds with a firm of stockbrokers,” Mrs. Cathcart continued, “and I deposited your necklace with the firm as security.” The girl gasped. “I intended, of course, redeeming it, but an unfortunate thing happened⁠—the safe was burgled and the necklace was stolen.”

Edith Standerton stared at the other.

The question of the necklace did not greatly worry her, yet she realised now that she had depended rather more upon it than she had thought. It was a little nest-egg against a bad time, which, if Gilbert spoke the truth, might come at any moment.

“It cannot be helped,” she said.

She did not criticise her mother or offer any opinion upon the impropriety of offering as security for debt articles which are the property of somebody else.

Such criticism would have been wasted, and the effort would have been entirely superfluous.

“Well,” asked Mrs. Cathcart, “what have you got to say?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“What can I say, mother? The thing is lost, and there is an end to it. Do the firm offer any compensation?”

She asked the question innocently: it occurred to her as a wandering thought that possibly something might be saved from the wreck.

Mrs. Cathcart shot a swift glance at her.

Had that infernal Warrell been communicating with her? She knew that Warrell was a friend of Edith’s husband. It would be iniquitous of him if he had.

“Some compensation was offered,” she answered carelessly, “quite inadequate; the matter is not settled yet, but I will let you know how it developes.”

“What compensation do they offer?” asked Edith.

Mrs. Cathcart hesitated.

“A thousand pounds,” she said reluctantly.

“A thousand pounds!”

The girl was startled, she had no idea the necklace was of that value.

“That means, of course,” Mrs. Cathcart hastened to explain, “seven hundred pounds out of my pocket and three hundred pounds from the broker.”

The girl smiled inwardly. “Seven hundred pounds from my pocket” meant, “if you ask for the full value you will rob me.”

“And there is three hundred pounds due. I think I had better have that.”

“Wait a little,” said Mrs. Cathcart, “they may recover the necklace, anyway; they want me to give a description of it. What do you think?”

The girl shook her head.

“I do not think I should like that,” she said quietly. “Questions might be asked, and I should not like people to know either that the necklace was mine, or that my mother had deposited it as security against her debts.”

Here was the new Edith with a vengeance. Mrs. Cathcart stared at her.

“Edith,” she said severely, “that sounds a little impertinent.”

“I dare say it does, mother,” said the girl, “but what am I to do? What am I to say? There are the facts fairly apparent to you and to me; the necklace is stolen, and it may possibly never be recovered, and I am not going to expose either my loss or your weakness on the remote possibility of getting back an article of jewellery which probably by this time is in the meltingpot and the stones dispersed.”

“You know a great deal about jewels and jewel-robbers,” said her mother with a little sneer. “Has Gilbert been enlarging your education?”

“Curiously enough, he has,” said her daughter calmly; “we discuss many queer things.”

“You must have very pleasant evenings,” said the elder woman dryly. She rose to go, looking at her watch. “I am sorry I cannot stay,” she said, “but I am dining with some people. I suppose you would not like to come along? It is quite an informal affair; as a matter of fact, the invitation included you.”

“And Gilbert?” asked the girl.

The woman smiled.

“No, it did not exactly include Gilbert,” she said. “I have made it pretty clear that invitations to me are acceptable only so long as the party does not include your husband.”

The girl drew herself up stiffly, and the elder woman saw a storm gathering in her eyes.

“I do not quite understand you. Do you mean that you have gone round London talking unkindly about my husband?”

“Of course I have,” said Mrs. Cathcart virtuously. “I do not know about having gone round London, but I have told those people who are intimate friends of mine, and who are naturally interested in my affairs.”

“You have no right to speak,” said the girl angrily, “it is disgraceful of you. You have made your mistake, and you must abide by the consequence. I also have made a mistake, and I cheerfully accept my lot. If it hurts you that I am married to a man who despises me, how much more do you think it hurts me?”

Mrs. Cathcart laughed.

“I assure you,” she smiled, “that though many thoughts disturb my nights, the thought that your husband has no particular love for you is not one of them; what does wake me up with a horrid feeling is the knowledge that so far from being the rich man I thought he was, he is practically penniless. What madness induced him to give up his work at the Foreign Office?”

“You had better ask him,” said the girl with malice, “he will be in in a few moments.”

It needed only this to hasten Mrs. Cathcart’s departure, and Edith was left alone.

Edith dined alone that night.

At first she had welcomed with a sense of infinite relief these solitary dinners. She was a woman of considerable intelligence, and she had faced the future without illusion.

She realised that there might come a time when she and Gilbert would live together in perfect harmony, though without the essential sympathies which husband and wife should mutually possess. She was willing to undergo the years of probation, and it made it all the easier for her if business or pleasure kept them apart during the embarrassing hours between dinner and bedtime.

But tonight, for the first time, she was lonely.

She felt the need of him, the desire for his society, the cheer and the vitality of him.

There were moments when he was bright and happy and flippant, as she had known him at his best. There were other moments too, terrible and depressing moments, when she never saw him, when he shut himself in his study and she only caught a glimpse of his face by accident. She went through her dinner alternately reading and thinking.

A book lay upon the table by her side, but she did not turn one page. The maid was clearing the entrée when Edith Standerton looked up with a start.

“What is it?” she said.

“What, madam?” asked the girl.

Outside the window Edith could hear the sound of music, a gentle, soft cadence of sound, a tiny wail of melodious tragedy.

She rose from the table, walked across to the window and pulled aside the blinds. Outside a girl was playing a violin. In the light which a street lamp afforded Edith recognised the player of the “Melody in F.”