Love at Second Sight by Ada Leverson

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Edith suddenly got up.

'You won't think it horrid of me, Bruce? I've got to go out for a few
minutes.'

'Oh no, no, no!' said Bruce. 'Certainly not. Do go, my dear girl. You'll
be back to dinner?'

'Dinner? Of course. It isn't a quarter to six.'

Her eyes were bright. She looked full of elasticity and spirit again.

'I quite forgot,' she said, 'something that I promised to do for Mrs
Mitchell. And she'll be disappointed if I don't.'

'I know what it is,' said Madame Frabelle archly. 'It's about that
Society for the Belgians,'--she lowered her voice--'I mean the
children's _lingerie_!'

'That's it,' said Edith gratefully. 'Well, I'll fly--and be back as soon
as I can.'

Bruce got up and opened the door for her.

'For heaven's sake don't treat me with ceremony, my dear Edith,' said
Madame Frabelle.

She made a little sign, as much as to say that she would look after
Bruce. But she was not very successful in expressing anything by a look
or a gesture. Edith had no idea what she meant. However, she nodded in
return, as if she fully comprehended, and then ran up to her room, put
on her hat, and, too impatient to wait while the servant called a cab,
walked as quickly as possible until she met one near the top of Sloane
Street. It was already very dark.

'Twenty-seven Jermyn Street,' said Edith as she jumped in.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later she was sitting next to Aylmer.

'Only for a second; I felt I must see you.'

'Fool! Angel!' said Aylmer, beaming, and kissing her hand.

'Bruce is too irritating for words today. And Madame Frabelle makes me
sick. I can't stand her. At least today.'

'Oh, Edith, don't tell me you're jealous of the woman! I won't stand it!
I shan't play.'

'Good heavens, no! Not in the least. But her society's so tedious at
times. She has such a pompous way of discovering the obvious.'

'I do believe you object to her being in love with Bruce,' said Aylmer
reproachfully. 'That's a thing I will _not_ stand.'

'Indeed I don't. Besides, she's not. Who could be?... And don't be
jealous of Bruce, Aylmer.... I know she's very motherly to him, and
kind. But she's the same to everyone.'

They talked on for a few minutes. Then Edith said:

'Good-bye. I must go.'

'Good-bye,' said Aylmer.

'Oh! Are you going to let me go already?' she asked reproachfully.

She leant over him. Some impulse seemed to draw her near to him.

'You're using that Omar Khayyam scent again,' he said. 'I wish you
wouldn't.'

'Why? you said you liked it.'

'I do like it. I like it too much.'

She came nearer. Aylmer gently pushed her away.

'How unkind you are!' she said, colouring a little with hurt feeling.

'I can't do that sort of thing,' said Aylmer in a low voice. 'When once
you've given me your promise--but not before.'

'Oh, Aylmer!'

'I won't rush you. You'll see I'm right in time, dear girl.'

'You don't love me!' suddenly exclaimed Edith.

'But that's where you're wrong. I do love you. And I wish you'd go.'

She looked into his eyes, and then said, looking away:

'Are you really going out of town?'

'I'm ordered to. But I doubt if I can stand it.'

'Well, good-bye, Aylmer dear.'

'Fiend! Are you going already? Cruel girl!'

'Why you've just sent me away!'

'I can stand talking to you, Edith. Talking, for hours. But I can't
stand your being within a yard of me.'

'Thank you so much,' she said, laughing, and arranging her hat in front
of the mirror.

He spoke in a lower voice:

'How often must I tell you? You know perfectly well.'

'What?'

'I'm not that sort of man.'

'What sort?'

After a moment's pause he said:

'I can't kiss people.'

'I'm very glad you can't. I have no wish for you to kiss _people_.'

'I can't kiss. I don't know how anyone can. I can't do those things.'

She pretended not to hear, looked round the room, took up a book and
said:

'Will you lend me this, Aylmer?'

'No, I'll give it you.'

'Good-bye.'

'Good-bye, darling,' said Aylmer, ringing the bell.

The butler called her a cab, and she drove to Mrs Mitchell's.

When she got to the door she left a message with the footman to say she
hadn't been able to see about that matter for Mrs Mitchell yet, but
would do it tomorrow.

Just as she was speaking Mr Mitchell came up to the door.

'Hallo, hallo, hallo!' he cried in his cheery, booming voice.

'Hallo, Edith! How's Bruce?'

'Why, you ought to know. He's been with you today,' said Edith.

'He seems a bit off colour at the Foreign Office. Won't you all three
come and dine with us tomorrow? No party. I'm going to ring up and get
Aylmer. It won't hurt him to dine quietly with us.'

'We shall be delighted,' said Edith.

Mr Mitchell didn't like to see her go, but as he was longing to tell his
wife a hundred things that interested them both, he waved his hand to
her, saying:

'Good-bye. The war will be over in six months. Mark my words! And then
won't we have a good time!'

'Dear Mr Mitchell!' said Edith to herself as she drove back home in the
dark.

CHAPTER XXVII

Landi was growing rather anxious about his favourite, for it was quite
obvious to him that she was daily becoming more and more under the
spell. Curious that the first time she should have found the courage to
refuse, and that now, after three years' absence and with nothing to
complain of particularly on the subject of her husband, she should now
be so carried away by this love.

She had developed, no doubt. She was touched also, deeply moved at the
long fidelity Aylmer had shown. He was now no longer an impulsive
admirer, but a devotee. Even that, however, would not have induced her
to think of making such a break in her life if it hadn't been for the
war. Yes, Sir Tito put it all down to the war. It had an exciting,
thrilling effect on people. It made them reckless. When a woman knows
that the man she loves has risked his life, and is only too anxious to
risk it again--well, it's natural that she should feel she is also
willing to risk something. Valour has always been rewarded by beauty.
And then her great sense of responsibility, her conscientiousness about
Bruce--no wonder that had been undermined by his own weak conduct. How
could Edith help feeling a slight contempt for a husband who not only
wouldn't take any chances while he was still within the age, but
positively imagined himself ill. True, Bruce had always been a _malade
imaginaire_; like many others with the same weakness, his
valetudinarianism had been terribly increased by the anxiety and worry
of the war. But there was not much sympathy about for it just now. While
so much real suffering was going on, imaginary ills were ignored,
despised or forgotten.

Bruce hated the war; but he didn't hate it for the sake of other people
so much as for his own. The interest that the world took in it
positively bored him--absurd as it seems to say so, Edith was convinced
that he was positively jealous of the general interest in it! He had
great fear of losing his money, a great terror of Zeppelins; he gave way
to his nerves instead of trying to control them. Edith knew his greatest
wish would have been, had it been possible, to get right away from
everything and go and live in Spain or America, or somewhere where he
could hear no more about the war. Such a point of view might be
understood in the case, say, of a great poet, a great artist, a man of
genius, without any feeling of patriotism, or even a man beyond the age;
but Bruce--he was the most ordinary and average of human beings, the
most commonplace Englishman of thirty-seven who had ever been born; that
Bruce should feel like that did seem to Edith a little--contemptible;
yet she was sorry for him, she knew he really suffered from insomnia and
nerves, though he looked a fine man and had always been regarded as a
fair sportsman. He had been fair at football and cricket, and could row
a bit, and was an enthusiastic golfist; still, Edith knew he would never
have made a soldier. Bruce wanted to be wrapped up in cotton wool,
petted, humoured, looked up to and generally spoilt.

* * * * *

But what Sir Tito felt most was the thought of his favourite, who had
forgiven her husband that escapade three years ago, now appearing in an
unfavourable light. She had been absolutely faithful to Bruce in every
way, under many temptations, and he knew she was still absolutely
faithful. Aylmer and Edith were neither of them the people for secret
meetings, for deception. It was not in her to _tromper_ her husband
while pretending to be a devoted wife, and it was equally unlike Aylmer
to be a false friend.

Landi was too much of a man of the world to have been particularly
shocked, even if he had known they had both deceived Bruce. Privately,
for Edith's own sake he almost wished they had. He hated scandal to
touch her; he thought she would feel it more than she supposed. But,
after all, he reflected, had they begun in that way it would have been
sure to end in an elopement, with a man of Aylmer's spirit and
determination. Aylmer, besides, was far too exclusive in his affections,
far too jealous, ever to be able to endure to see Edith under Bruce's
thumb, ordered about, trying to please him; and indeed Landi was most
anxious that they should not be alone too much, in case, now that Edith
cared for him so much, his feelings would carry him away.... Yes, if it
once went too far the elopement was a certainty.

Would the world blame her so very much? That Bruce would let her take
the children Landi had no doubt. He would never stand the bother of
them; he wouldn't desire the responsibility; his pride might be a little
hurt, but on the whole Sir Tito shrewdly suspected, as did Edith
herself, that there would be a certain feeling of relief. Bruce had
become such an egotist that, though he would miss Edith's devotion, he
wouldn't grudge her the care of the children. Aylmer had pledged her his
faith, his whole future; undoubtedly he would marry her and take the
children as his own; still, Edith would bear the brunt before the world.

This Sir Tito did not fancy at all, and instinctively he began to watch
Bruce. He felt very doubtful of him. The man who had flirted with the
governess, who had eloped with the art student--was it at all likely
that he was utterly faithful to Edith now? It was most unlikely. And
Edith's old friend hoped that things would be adjusted in fairness
to her.

He knew she would be happy with Aylmer. Why should she not at
thirty-five begin a new life with the man she really cared for--a
splendid fellow, a man with a fine character, with all his faults, who
felt the claims of others, who had brains, pluck, and a sense of honour?

But Aylmer was going out again to the front. Until he returned again,
nothing should be done. They should be patient.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Dulcie had now been settled down with Lady Conroy for about a week. She
found her luxurious life at Carlton House Terrace far more congenial
than she had expected. Her own orderly ways were obviously a great
comfort to her employer, and though Lady Conroy turned everything to
chaos as soon as Dulcie had put it straight, still she certainly had a
good effect on things in general. She had a charming sitting-room to
herself, and though she sometimes sighed for the little Chippendale room
with the chintzes, at Jermyn Street, she was on the whole very
contented. Lady Conroy was a delightful companion. She seldom pressed
Dulcie to come down to meals when there were guests. Occasionally she
did so, but so far the only person Dulcie had met more than once was
Valdez, the handsome composer, who was trying so hard, with the help of
Lady Conroy and his War Emergency Concerts, to assist such poor
musicians as were suffering from the war, and at the same time to assert
the value of British music.

Dulcie had been immensely struck by the commanding appearance and manner
of Valdez, known everywhere as a singer, a writer of operas and a
favourite of foreign royalties.

Landi she had often met at Aylmer's, but, privately, she was far more
impressed by Valdez; first, he was English, though, like herself, of
Spanish descent, and then he had none of the _mechancete_ and teasing
wit that made her uncomfortable with Landi. He treated her with
particularly marked courtesy, and he admired her voice, for Lady Conroy
had good-naturedly insisted on her singing to him. He had even offered,
when he had more time, to give her a few lessons. Lady Conroy told her a
hundred interesting stories about him and Dulcie found a tinge of
romance about him that helped to give piquancy to her present life.

* * * * *

Dulcie was very much afraid of Lord Conroy, though he didn't appear to
notice her. In his own way he was as absent-minded as his wife, to whom
he was devoted, but whose existence was entirely independent of his.

Lord Conroy had his own library, his own secretary, his own suite of
rooms, his own motor, he didn't even tell his wife when he intended to
dine out, and if he occasionally spoke to her of the strained political
situation which now absorbed him, it certainly wasn't when Dulcie was
there. With his grey beard and dark, eyebrows, and absent, distinguished
manner, he was exactly what Dulcie would have dreamed of as an ideal
Cabinet Minister. He evidently regarded his wife, despite her
thirty-eight years and plumpness, almost as a child, giving her complete
freedom to pursue her own devices, admiring her appearance, and smiling
at her lively and inconsequent conversation; he didn't seem to take her
seriously. Dulcie was particularly struck by the fact that they each had
their own completely distinct circle of friends, and except when they
gave a party or a large dinner these friends hardly met, and certainly
didn't clash.

As everyone in the house had breakfasts independently, and as Dulcie
didn't even dine downstairs unless Lady Conroy was alone, she saw very
little of the man whom she knew to be a political celebrity, and whose
name was on almost everybody's lips just now. She heard from his wife
that he was worried and anxious, and hoped the war wouldn't last
much longer.

There were no less than seven children, from the age of twelve
downwards. Two of these lived in the schoolroom with the governess, one
boy was at school, and the rest lived in the nursery with the nurse. One
might say there were five different sets of people living different
lives in different rooms, in this enormous house. Sometimes Dulcie
thought it was hardly quite her idea of home life, a thing Lady Conroy
talked of continually with great sentiment and enthusiasm, but it was
pleasant enough. Since she was here to remember engagements and dates
everything seemed to go on wheels.

One day, feeling very contented and in good spirits, she had gone to see
her father with an impulse to tell him how well she was getting on.
Directly the door was opened by the untidy servant Dulcie felt that
something had happened, that some blow had fallen. Everything looked
different. She found her father in his den surrounded by papers, his
appearance and manner so altered that the first thing she said was:

'Oh, papa! what's the matter?'

Her father looked up. At his expression she flew to him and threw her
arms round him. Then, of course, he broke down. Strange that with all
women and most men it is only genuine sympathy that makes them give way.
With a cool man of the world, or with a hard, cold, heartless daughter
who had reproached him, Mr Clay would have been as casual as an
undergraduate.

At her sweetness he lost his self-control, and then he told her
everything.

* * * * *

It was a short, commonplace, second-rate story, quite trivial and
middle-class, and _how_ tragic! He had gambled, played cards, lost, then
fallen back on the resource of the ill-judged and independent-minded--gone
to the professional lenders. Mr Clay was not the sort of man who would
ever become a sponge, a nuisance to friends. He was far too proud, and
though he had often helped other people, he had never yet asked for help.
In a word, the poor little house was practically in ruins, or rather, as
he explained frankly enough (giving all details), unless he could get
eighty pounds by the next morning his furniture would be sold and he and
his wife would be turned out. Mr Clay had a great horror of a smash. He
was imprudent, even reckless, but had the sense of honour that would cause
him to suffer acutely, as Dulcie knew. Of course she offered to help;
surely since she had three hundred a year of her own she could do
something, and he had about the same....The father explained that he had
already sold his income in advance. And her own legacy had been left so
that she was barred from anticipation. Dulcie, who was practical enough,
saw that her own tiny income was absolutely all that the three would have
to live on until her father got something else, and that bankruptcy was
inevitable unless she could get him eighty pounds in a day.

'It's so little,' he said pathetically, 'and just to think that if Blue
Boy hadn't been scratched I should have been bound to--Well, well, I
know. I'm not going to bet any more.'

She made him promise to buck up, she would consult her friends.... Lady
Conroy would perhaps be angelic and advance her her salary. (Of course
she loathed the idea when she had been there only a week of being a
nuisance and--But she must try.) It was worth anything to see her father
brighten up. He told her to go and see her stepmother.

Mrs. Clay received her with the tenderest expressions and poured out her
despairs and her troubles; she also confided in Dulcie that she had some
debts that her husband knew nothing of and must _never_ know. If only
Dulcie could manage to get her thirty pounds--surely it would be easy
enough with all her rich friends!--it would save her life. Dulcie
promised to try, but begged her not to bother so much about dress
in future.

'Of course I won't, darling! You're a pet and an angel. _Darling_
Dulcie! The truth is I adore your father. And he always told me that he
fell in love with me because I looked so smart! I was so terrified of
losing his affection by getting dowdy, don't you see? Besides, he
doesn't take the slightest notice what I wear, he never knows what I've
got on! Always betting or absorbed in the Racing Intelligence; it's
really dreadful.'

Dulcie promised anything, at least to do her best, if only Mrs Clay
would be kind, sweet to her father.

'Don't scold him, don't reproach him,' she begged. 'I'm sure he'll be
terribly ill unless you're very patient and sweet to him. And I promise
he shall never know about your debts.'

Mrs Clay looked at her in wonder and gratitude. The real reason Dulcie
took on herself the wife's separate troubles and resolved to keep them
from her father was that she felt sure that if he reproached his wife
she would retort and then there would be a miserable state of feud in
the house, where at least there had been peace and affection till now.
Dulcie couldn't endure the idea of her father being made unhappy, and
she thought that by making her stepmother under an obligation to her,
she would have a sort of hold or influence and could make her behave
well and kindly to her husband. Dulcie hadn't the slightest idea how she
was going to do it, but she would.

She never even thought twice about giving up her income to her father.
She was only too delighted to be able to do it. And she believed that
his pride and sense of honour might really even make him stop gambling.
And then there was some chance of happiness for the couple again.

* * * * *

Dulcie had really undertaken more of a sacrifice for her stepmother,
whom she rather disliked, than for her father, whom she adored, but it
was for his sake. She left them cheered, grateful, and relying on her.

* * * * *

When she got home to her charming room at Carlton House Terrace she sat
down, put her head in her hands and began to think. She had undertaken
to get a hundred and ten pounds in two days.

How was she to do it? Of course she knew that Aylmer Ross would be able
and willing, indeed enchanted, to come to the rescue. He was always
telling her that she had saved his life.

She would like to get his sympathy and interest, to remind him of her
existence.

But she was far too much in love with him still to endure the thought of
a request for money--that cold douche on friendship! She would rather go
to anyone in the world than Aylmer.

What about Edith Ottley? Edith had been kindness itself to her; it was
entirely through Edith that she had this position as secretary and
companion at a salary of a hundred a year which now would mean so
much to her.

She admired Edith more than any woman she knew; she thought her lovely,
elegant, clever, fascinating and kindness itself. Yet she would dislike
to ask Edith even more than Aylmer. The reason was obvious. Edith was
her rival. Of course it was not her fault. She had not taken Aylmer away
from her, she was his old friend, but the fact remained that her idol
was in love with Edith. And Dulcie was so constituted that she could ask
neither of them a favour to save her life.

Lady Conroy then.... But how awkward, how disagreeable, how painful to
her pride when she had been there only a week and Lady Conroy treated
her almost like a sister!... There was a knock at the door.

'Come in!' said Dulcie, surprised. No-one ever came to her little
sitting-room at this hour, about half-past five. Who could it be? To her
utter astonishment and confusion the servant announced Mr Valdez.

* * * * *

Dulcie was sitting on the sofa, still in her hat and coat, her eyes red
with crying, for she had utterly given way when she got home. She was
amazed and confused at seeing the composer, who came calmly in, holding
a piece of music in his hand.

'Good morning, Miss Clay. Please forgive me. I hope I'm not troubling
you? They told me Lady Conroy was out but that you were at home and up
here; and I hoped--' He glanced at the highly decorated little piano.
This room had been known as the music-room before it was given
to Dulcie.

'Oh, not at all,' she said in confusion, looking up and regretting her
crimson and swollen eyes and generally unprepared appearance.

He immediately came close to her, sat down on a chair opposite her sofa,
leant forward and said abruptly, in a tone of warm sympathy:

'You are distressed. What is it, my child? I came up to ask you to play
over this song. But I shall certainly not go now till you've told me
what's the matter.'

'Oh, I can't,' said Dulcie, breaking down.

He insisted:

'You can. You shall. I'm sure I can help you. Go on.'

Whether it was his personality which always had a magnetism for her, or
the reaction of the shock she had had, Dulcie actually told him every
word, wondering at herself. He listened, and then said cooly:

'My dear child, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. People
mustn't worry about trifles. Just before the war I won a lot of money at
Monte Carlo. I simply don't know what to do with it. Stop!' he said, as
she began to speak. 'You want a hundred and ten pounds. You shall have
it in half-an-hour. I shall go straight back to Claridge's in a taxi,
write a cheque, get it changed--for you won't know what to do with a
cheque, or at any rate it would give you more trouble--and send you the
money straight back by my servant or my secretary in a taxi.' He stood
up. 'Not another word, my dear Miss Clay. Don't attach so much
importance to money. It would be a bore for you to have to bother Lady
Conroy. I understand. Don't imagine you're under any obligation; you can
pay it me back just whenever you like and I shall give it to the War
Emergency Concerts.... Now, _please_, don't be grateful. Aren't
we friends?'

'You're too kind,' she answered.

He hurried to the door.

'When my secretary comes back she will ask to see you. If anyone knows
you have a visitor say I sent you the music or tickets for the concert.
Good-bye. Cheer up now!'

In an hour from the time Valdez had come in to see her, father and
stepmother had each received the money. The situation was saved.

* * * * *

Dulcie marvelled at the action and the manner in which it was done. But
none who knew Valdez well would have been in the least surprised. He was
the most generous of men, and particularly he could not bear to see a
pretty girl in sincere distress through no fault of her own. It was
Dulcie's simple sincerity that pleased him. He came across very little
of it in his own world. That world was brilliant, distinguished,
sometimes artistic, sometimes merely _mondain_. But it was seldom
sincere. He liked that quality best of all. He certainly was gifted with
it himself.

* * * * *

From this time, though Valdez still encouraged Dulcie to sing and
occasionally accompanied her, the slight tinge of flirtation vanished
from his manner. She felt he was only a friend. Did she ever regret it?
Perhaps, a little.

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