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Glory of Clementina Wing

<div><h1>CHAPTER XX</h1></div> My good children, I tell you we’ll go by train,” said Clementina, putting her foot down. “I don’t care a brass button for the chauffeur’s loneliness, and the prospect of his pining away on his journey back to London leaves me cold.” She had exhausted the delights of the car of thirty-five million dove-power, and was anxious to settle Sheila in Romney Place as quickly as possible. “As for you two,” she added, “you have had as big a dose of each other as is good for you.” Only one thing tempted her to linger in Paris—curiosity as to the sentimental degree of the friendship between the lady of her disfavour and Quixtus. That she was a new friend and not an old friend, the exchange of a few remarks with the ingenuous Lady Louisa had enabled her very soon to discover. Clementina looked askance on such violent intimacies. Quixtus, for whose welfare now she felt herself, in an absurd way, responsible, had not the constitution to stand them. The lady might be highly connected and move in the selectest of circles, but she had a hard edge, betraying what Clementina was pleased to call the society hack; she was shallow, insincere; talked out of a hastily stuffed memory instead of an intellect; she had the vulgarity of good breeding, as noticeable a quality as the good-breeding of one in lowly station; she was insufferable—an impossible companion for a man of Quixtus’s mental equipment and sensitive organisation. There was something else about her that baffled Clementina, and further whetted her curiosity. Neither was Clementina perfect, nor did she look for perfection in this compromise of a world. As an artist she demanded light and shade. “I wouldn’t paint an angel’s portrait,” she said once, “for fifty thousand pounds. And if an angel came to tea with me, the first thing I should do would be to claw off his wings.” Now, no one could deny the light and shade in Lena Fontaine. But there is such a thing as false chiaroscuro, and it offends and perplexes the artist. Lena Fontaine offended and perplexed Clementina. Again, Clementina, with regard to the chambers of her heart, was somewhat house-proud. Very few were admitted; but once admitted, the favoured mortal was welcome to stay there for ever. Now, behold an exasperating aggravation. She had just received Quixtus in the very best guest-room, and, instead of admiring it and taking his ease in it, here he was hanging halfway out of window, all ears to a common hussy. If she had an insane desire to pull him back by the coat-tails, who can blame her? No sensible purpose being attainable, however, by lingering in Paris, she gruffly sent temptation packing, and, with her brood under her wing, took the noon train from the Gare du Nord on the following day. Quixtus was there, at the station, to see them off, his arms filled with packages. As he could not raise his hat when the party approached, he smiled apologetically, looking, according to Tommy, like Father Christmas detected at Midsummer. There was a great bouquet of orchids for Clementina (such a handy, useful thing on the journey from Paris to London!) an enormous bonbonnière of sweets for Etta; a stupendous woolly lamb for Sheila which, on something being done to its anatomy, opened its mouth and gramaphonically chanted the “Jewel Song” from Faust; and a gold watch for Tommy. The singing of the lamb, incautiously exploited on the platform, to Sheila’s ecstasy, caused considerable dislocation of railway business. A crowd collected to see the gaunt, scholarly Englishman holding the apocalyptic beast in his arms, all intent on the rapture of the tiny flower-like thing standing open-mouthed before him. Even porters forgot to say “Faites attention,” and stopped their barrows, to listen to the magic song and view the unprecedented spectacle. It was only when the lamb bleated his last note that Quixtus became conscious of his surroundings. “Good heavens!” said he. “Do it again,” said Sheila, in her clear contralto, whereat the bystanders laughed. “Not for anything in the world, my dear. Tommy, take the infernal thing. My dear,” said he, lifting Sheila in his arms, “if I know anything of Tommy, he will have that tune going for the next seven hours.” She allowed herself to be carried in seraphic content to the entrance of the car in which was the compartment reserved for the party. Tommy carrying the lamb, Clementina and Etta followed. “That kid’s a wonder,” said Tommy. “She would creep into the heart of a parsnip.” Clementina, to whom the remark was addressed, walked three or four steps in silence. Then she said: “Tommy, if I hear you say a thing like that again, I’ll box your ears.” He stared at her in amazement. He had paid a spontaneous and sincere tribute to the child over whom she had gone crazy. What more could she want? She moved a step in advance, leaving him free to justify himself with Etta, who agreed with him in the proposition that Clementina for the last two days was in a very cranky mood. Very natural, the proposition of the two innocents. How could they divine that the moisture in Clementina’s eyes had nothing whatsoever to do with Sheila’s appreciation of the vocal lamb or her readiness to be carried by Quixtus? How could they divine that, at the possibility of which the cruelty and insolence of youth would have caused them both to shriek with inextinguishable laughter? And how was Tommy, generous-hearted lad that he was, to know that this one unperceptive speech of his sent him hurtling out of the land of Romance down to common earth? Henceforward Tommy, whilst retaining his chamber in Clementina’s heart, was to walk in and out just as he chose. Not the tiniest pang was he again to cause her. But what could Tommy know—what can you or I or any other male thing ever born know of a woman? We walk, good easy men; with confident and careless tread through the familiar garden, and then suddenly terra firma miraculously ceases to exist, and head-over-heels we go down a precipice. How came it that we were unaware of its existence? Mystère! Who could interpret the soul of La Giaconda? Leonardo da Vinci least of all. It is all very well to give a man a vote; he is a transparent animal, and you know the way the dunderhead is going to use it; but the incalculable and pyrotechnic way in which women will use it will make humanity blink. Let us therefore pardon Tommy for staring in amazement at Clementina. He sought refuge in Etta. From Scylla, perhaps, to Charybdis; but for the present, Charybdis sat smiling under her fig-tree, the most innocent and bewitching monster in the world. Leaving the three children in the compartment, Clementina and Quixtus walked, for the last few moments before the train started, up and down the platform. “I suppose you’ll soon be coming back to London?” said Clementina. “I think so,” said he. “Now that the Grand Prix is over Paris is emptying rapidly.” “Parrot!” thought Clementina, once more confounding the instructress; but she said blandly; “What difference in the world can it make to you whether Paris is empty or not?” He smiled good-naturedly. “To tell the honest truth, none. Yes. I must be getting home again.” “Of course there’ll be a certain amount of worry over Hammersley’s affairs,” she said; “but I hope you’ve got something else to do to occupy your mind.” “I want to settle down to systematic work,” replied Quixtus. “What kind of work?” “Well,” said he, with an apologetic air, “I mean to extend my little handbook on ‘The Household Arts of the Neolithic Age’ into an authoritative and comprehensive treatise. I’ve been gathering material for years. I’m anxious to begin.” “Begin to-morrow,” said Clementina. “And whenever you feel lonely come and read bits of it to Sheila and me.” And thus came about the surprising and monstrous alliance between Clementina and Prehistoric Man. Dead men’s jawbones had some use after all. “En voiture!” cried the guard. “Good-bye, my dear Clementina,” said Quixtus, “we have had a memorable meeting.” “We have, indeed. You are sending away three very happy people.” “Why not four?” But she only smiled wryly and said: “Good-bye, God bless you. And keep out of mischief,” and clambered into the train. The train began to move, to the faint strains of the “Jewel Song” in Faust, and Sheila blew him kisses from the carriage window. He responded until the little white face disappeared. Then he thought of Clementina. “The very best, but the most enigmatic woman in the world,” said he. Which was a very sweeping statement for a man of his scientific accuracy. Entirely ignorant of the word of the enigma, he went back to the spotless flower of insulted womanhood, who took him off to lunch with her French friends. She welcomed his undivided homage. That fishfag of a creature, as she characterised Clementina in conversation with Lady Louisa, made her feel uncomfortable. Even now that she had gone, the problem of Quixtus’s removal from her sphere of influence remained. The child was the stake to which he was fettered within that sphere. Could she break the chains? Therein seemed to lie the only solution—unless by audacity and adroitness she uprooted the stake and carried it, with Quixtus, chains and all, into her own territory. She had a talk after lunch with Huckaby. The luncheon-party had broken up into groups of two or three, who wandered about the cool enclosure of the Bois de Boulogne restaurant where the feast had been given, and, half by chance, half by design, the two had joined company. Their conversation on the evening of Quixtus’s departure from Paris had deeply affected their mutual relations. Each felt conscious of presenting a less tarnished front to the other, and each, not hypocritically, began to assume a little halo of virtue in the pathetic hope that the other would be impressed by its growing radiance. During the few days of Quixtus’s absence they had become friends and exchanged confidences. Huckaby convinced her of the sincerity of his desire to reform. He described his life. He had worked when work came his way—but work has a curious habit of shrinking from the drunkard’s way; a bit of teaching, a bit of free-lance journalism, a bit of hack compilation in the British Museum; he had borrowed far and wide; he had not been over-scrupulous on the point of financial honour. Hunger had driven him. Lena Fontaine shivered at the horrors through which he had struggled. All he desired was cleanliness in life and body and surroundings. She understood. Material cleanliness had been and would be hers; but cleanliness of life she yearned for as much as he did. But for him, the man, with the given boon of honourable employment, it was an easy matter. For her, the woman, tired and soul-sick, what avenue lay open? She, in her turn, told him of incidents in her career at which he shuddered. “Throw it up, throw it up,” he counselled. She smiled bitterly. What could be the end of the bird of prey who assumed the habits of the dove? She could marry, he replied, before it was too late. Marry, ay! But whom? She had not dared confide to him her hope. So close, however, being their relations, Huckaby had not failed to acquaint her with the important scope of his conversation with Quixtus the day before. Quixtus’s changed demeanour, obvious to her at once, confirmed his announcement. She welcomed it with more joy than Huckaby could appreciate. For behind the pity that had paralysed beak and talon, the new-born hope and the curious liking she had conceived for the mild, crazy gentleman, stalked the instinctive aversion which the sane feel towards those whose wits have gone ever so little astray. The news had come as an immense relief. Now she could meet him on normal ground. All was fair. They found two chairs by a little table under a tree, at the back of the Châlet Restaurant and secluded from the gaiety and laughter of the front. Nothing human was in sight save, through the tall, masking acacias and shrubs, the white gleams of cooks and hurrying, aproned waiters. “Let us sit,” she said. “How good it is to get a little cool and quiet. This vie de cabaret is getting on my nerves. I’m weary to death of it.” Huckaby laughed. “It’s still enough novelty to me to be pleasant.” She accepted a cigarette. They smoked for a while. “How’s goodness getting on?” she asked. “By leaps and bounds daily. I’m becoming a fanatical believer in the copy-book. I’m virtuous. I’m happy. Industry is a virtue. My virtue is to be rewarded by industry. Therefore virtue is its own reward.” “What industry?” “I’m going to collaborate with our friend in the new book he’s talking about,” replied Huckaby, with a surviving touch of boastfulness. “There is also a possibility of my taking over the secretaryship of the Anthropological Society.” “You’re lucky,” said Lena Fontaine. “How’s goodness with you?” “The usual slump. Shares going dirt cheap. No one seems to have any use for virtue in a woman.” “Husbands seem to have, as I’ve already suggested to you.” “Have you any particular husband to suggest?” He cast on her a glance of admiration, for in her outward seeming she was an object for any man’s forgivable desire, and he said in a tone not wholly of banter: “The humble individual in front of you would have no chance, I suppose?” She laughed. “None whatever.” “You’ll pardon my presumption in making the offer; but could I, en galant homme, do otherwise?” “No,” she replied, good-humouredly, “you couldn’t. If you had five thousand a year, it would give me to think, for you’re not unsympathetic. But as you haven’t, I’ve no use for you—as a husband, bien entendu.” It was a jest. They laughed. Presently a cloud obscured the sunshine of her laughter. She leaned over the table. “Eustace Huckaby, are you or are you not my friend?” For once in her dealings with a man whose goodwill she desperately craved, she was sincere. She dropped the conscious play of glance and tone; but she forgot the liquid splendour of her eyes and the dangerous nearness of her face to his. “Your friend?” he cried, laying his hand on her wrist. “Can you doubt it? I am indeed. I swear it.” “Do you know why I’m staying here—apparently wasting my time?” “I’ve supposed something was up; but my supposition seemed too absurd!” “Why absurd?” “Quixtus as a husband?” “Yes. Why not?” He released her wrist and fell back in his chair. He frowned and tugged at his beard. “Do you care for him?” “Yes. In a way. I sincerely do. If you mean—have I fallen desperately in love with him?—well, I haven’t. That would be absurd. It’s not my habit to fall in love.” “What would you get out of it?” She made an impatient gesture. “Rest. Peace. Happiness. He’s a wealthy man and would give me all the comfort I need. I couldn’t face poverty. And he would be kind to me.” “And he—pardon the brutality of my question—what would he get out of it?” “I’m a lady, after all,” she said, “and I know how to run a large house—and as a woman I’m not unattractive. And I’d run straight. Temperamentally I am straight. That’s frank. Whatever impulses I’ve had within me with regard to running off the rails have been the other way. Oh, God, yes,” she added, with a little shiver and averted eyes, “I’d run straight.” “What about ghosts of the past rising up and queering things?” “I’d take my chance. I’ve bluffed myself out of tight places already, and I could bluff again.” Huckaby lit another cigarette. “He looks on you as a spotless angel of purity,” said he. “If he married you on that assumption, and learned things afterwards, there would be the devil to pay. He’s been hit like that already, and he went off his head. I shouldn’t like him to have another experience. Why not tell him something—just a little?” She raised both hands in nervous protest. “Oh, no, no. The woman who does that is a fool. It never comes off. Let him take me for what he thinks I am, and I’ll see that I remain so. Trust me. It will be all right. You’re the only impediment.” “I?” “Of course. You have it in your power to give me away at any time. That’s why I asked you whether you were my friend.” Huckaby tugged at his beard, and pondered deeply. He meant, with all the fresh energy of new resolve, to be loyal to Quixtus. But how could he stand in the way of a woman seeking salvation? Moral sense, however, is a plant of gradual growth. Huckaby’s as yet was not adequate to the solution of the perplexing problem. Lena Fontaine held out her hand, palm upward, across the table. “Speak,” she said. He took her hand and pressed it. “I’ll be your friend in this,” said he. She thanked him with her eyes, and rose. “Let us go back to the others, or they’ll think we’re having a horrible flirtation.” On this and on the succeeding days she discovered a subtle change in Quixtus’s attitude towards her. His manner had grown, if possible, more courteous; it betrayed a more delicate admiration, a more graceful homage to the beautiful and charming woman. Before his Marseilles visit she had found it an easy task to appeal to the fool that grins in every man. A trick of eyes and voice was enough to set him love-making in what she had termed the Quixtine manner. Now the task was more difficult. She found herself confronted by a greater sensitiveness that did not respond to the obvious invitation. He was up in the clouds, more chivalrous, more idealistic. With a sigh, she gathered her skirts together and climbed to the higher plane. And all this on Quixtus’s part was sheer remorse—atonement for the unspeakable insult. The thought of having dared to make coarse love to this exquisite creature filled him with horrified dismay. That the lady had appeared rather to like the coarse love-making he did not stop to consider. Certainly, in his crazy exultation, he had proclaimed her a fruit ripe to his hand, but that was only an additional vulgarity which had stained that peculiar phase of his being. The result of the reaction was to accentuate the reverential conception of woman, which, by reason of a temperament dreamy and poetic and of a scholarly life remote from the disillusionising conflicts of sex, he had always entertained. He comported himself therefore towards her with scrupulous delicacy, resolved that not a word or intonation that could be construed into an affront should ever pass his lips. The fine weather broke. Torrential rains swept Paris. The meteorologists talked learnedly about cyclonic disturbances in the Atlantic which would affect the weather adversely for some time to come. Lena Fontaine began to reflect. Summer Paris in rain is no place for junketing, even on the high planes. It offers to the visitor nothing but the boredom of hotel and restaurant. She knew the elementary axiom of sex relations, that the woman who bores a man is lost. The high planes were all right when you looked down from them on charming objective things; but, after all, a man has to be amused, and fun on the high planes is a humour dangerously attenuated. She announced an immediate departure from Paris. “If you would accept the escort of Huckaby and myself, we should be honoured,” said Quixtus. “Unless of course we should be in the way.” She laughed. “My dear friend, did you ever hear of men being in the way when women were travelling? A lone woman is never more conspicuously lonesome than en voyage. All the other women around who have men to look after them look at one with a kind of patronising pity, as though they said; ‘Poor thing that can’t rake up a man from anywhere.’ And it makes one want to scratch.” “Does it really?” smiled Quixtus. “It does.” She laughed again and sighed. “A lone woman has much to put up with. Malicious tongues not the least.” “My dear Mrs. Fontaine,” said he, “what tongue could be so malicious as to speak evil of you?” “There are thousands in this gossipy world. Our little friendship and camaraderie of the last fortnight—sweetness and innocence itself—who knows what misinterpretation slanderers might put on it?” Quixtus flushed, and drew his gaunt body to its full height. “I’m not pugilistic by habit,” said he, “but if any man made such an insinuation, I should knock him down.” “It would be more likely a woman.” “Then,” said he, “I think I could manage to convey to her, without brutality, that she was a disgrace to her sex.” She fluttered a glance at him. “I should like to have you always as a champion.” “If I understand the word gentleman aright,” said Quixtus, “he is always the champion of the unprotected woman.” His tone assured her that this Early-Victorian sentiment was not mere gallantry. He meant it, indignant still at the idea of misconstruction of their friendship. “I happen to be a woman,” she said, “and seek the particular rather than the general. I said my champion, Dr. Quixtus. Now don’t say that the greater includes the less, or I shall fall through the floor.” He was too much in earnest to smile with her in her coquetry. “Mrs. Fontaine,” said he, with a bow, “no one will ever dare speak evil of you in my presence.” She rose—they were sitting in the lounge. “Thank you,” she said, falling in with his earnest mood. “Thank you. I shall go back to London with a light heart.” And like a wise woman, she cut short the conversation, and went upstairs to dress for dinner. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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