VII
THREE'S COMPANY
I had been told nothing about it, but I would have wagered my boot-treesthat Carrie and Bassishaw had had a tiff. In the first place, Carrie hadinvited me to accompany them to the opera when she knew that myacceptance was possible, which was contrary to her usual practice. Mypresence on such occasions had of late been not indispensable; and theseyoung people had gone about together with an aggressive air ofsufficiency in each other's company that had insulated them from myattentions and led me to muse on the thanklessness of youth.
"Are you going out with Arthur this evening, my dear?" I had asked.
"Well, yes, Rollo," she had replied diffidently, "Arthur particularlywanted to take me to St. James's Hall."
"It is a refining entertainment. I haven't heard Moore and Burgess for along time. I think I'll come with you."
My sister evaded the main point, and countered on the inessential.
"It's not Moore and Burgess," she replied. "It's a ballad concert."
"'On the banks of the Wabash far away,'" I answered. "A simple sentimentwould suit me exactly this evening. Yes, I think I'll come, thank you,Caroline."
"I should like you to, Rol, dear, you know; but your cold----"
Of course, my cold; I didn't know I had one, but they had made a chronicasthmatic of me lately.
"And besides, Rol, Mr. Chatterton said he might call this evening. I'mawfully sorry, dear; but can you come to-morrow to the Globe matinee?"
They knew my prospective engagements better than I knew them myself.There was a trifling foolish committee meeting toward to-morrow, andwith that I had to be content.
But a tiff is the Compleat Bachelor's opportunity, and in the invitationto _Tristan_ I spied entertainment.
Carrie had sunk gently on my knee, and had placed a small finger througha buttonhole of my coat. Bassishaw had just called, dressed with theimmaculate precision of one who has made up his mind to sulk in hisstall, and had taken up a book on jurisprudence which I keptconscientiously on my table, an imposing reminiscence of my youngerdays. He watched Carrie furtively over the top of it.
"Please, Rol," she said, the finger working detrimentally through thebuttonhole. "You know you love _Tristan_, and Jean and Edouard----"
"But three cannot listen to _Tristan_," I replied. "Whose hand am Ito----"
She came closer, and a mute look in her eyes said that an IrrevocableDestiny had made of her life a Blighted Tract.
"But my cold, Caroline?" I asked consumptively.
"Oh, Rollo, you shall have hot rum directly you come in, and I'll nurseyou. _Do_ come."
I acceded with secret joy, on the condition of being spared the remedyshe suggested.
"Then we will dine out," I added.
We did so, in a gloomy depression of spirits that was eminentlydesirable. Carrie's humor was not improved by the sight of a man at thenext table, apparently chastely-minded, but who took chutney to agrilled steak. She has an instinct for dietetic refinements, and lookson culinary barbarity as worse than untruthfulness.
I had to do most of the talking, which I did, I think, in a naiveunconsciousness of the summer cloudlet that loomed glowering over theparty. I spoke of youth. I said, Heaven forgive me, that it was thehappiest period of life; that when the heart smiled in love the skieshad a blueness; and much more of the same kind. Bassishaw gruntedremarks on the Transvaal prospect, and for Carrie's benefit mutteredsomething about shipment of troops and leave-taking at Waterloo.
"I'm going to see about my kit to-morrow," he added, and drank threeliqueurs recklessly. Three liqueurs is a great compliment to the girlyou love; four the very abandonment of careless devilry.
Carrie tried feebly to show unconcern as to their effect on hisconstitution, and I took coffee in huge enjoyment.
Bassishaw tipped the waiter with imprudent extravagance, hailed apassing hansom cabby--"Passing, not passing handsome," I ventured toobserve, but got no response--and magnanimously bowed Carrie and myselfinto the cab, saying he would follow. I told Carrie on the way that Icould not have wished a more desirable brother-in-law.
At the opera I modestly took the end stall of the three, but Carriemoved me along. She then settled herself listlessly on my right, whileBassishaw, who had arrived, glowered at the side-drums on my left.
He was utterly indifferent to the entrance of the conductor, and theoverture to _Tristan_ evidently brought no peace to his soul. He fumedunholily, and threw himself about in his seat in a way that drew aremonstrating remark from an ardent Vaaagnerite on his left. At the endof the first act he went out for a cigarette, apologising with formalityas Carrie gathered up her gown to allow him to pass. Carrie's prettyneck bowed a graceful aloofness. When his straight back disappearedbehind the curtain, my sister throwing a slanting glance to see if heturned round, I sought her eyes, and leaned over, speaking softly.
"Was it about your writing, my literary little sister?" I asked.
She assented with a little gulp.
"Tell me, my dear," I said, turning my back on the Vaaagnerite nextArthur's empty seat, who was talking the cult rather stridently.
She told me in pure innocence of the Conflict between Literature andLove. She spoke of the Devotion to Work and the Sacredness of a Mission.The dear little soul was going to enlighten the peoples!
"And I asked Arthur's opinion," she said, her breast rising.
Never till then had I realised the forgetfulness of love.
Arthur's opinion on literature!
"And what did Arthur say, Caroline?" I asked, composing myself as best Icould.
"He said he didn't want women to be clever, and they had no business tobe. He thought they only ought to be pretty, and I was only inking myfingers. Then I told him what George Eliot said, and he said I'd beenreading _Half Hours with the Best Authors_."
"And then you quarrelled?"
"Ssh--yes."
Arthur entered at this moment, and stumbled back to his seat. TheVaaagnerite broke off Goetterdammerung at the third syllable, and I fancyArthur had trodden on his toes. I had great sympathy with Arthur. Iparticularly liked his views on the art question; but he would have tounbend to this poor little child on my right.
She had turned her head on her shoulder during the love duet, and Icould not see her face. I held out my hand for her opera-glasses, andraised them to my eyes. The lenses were wet with tears--I suspected it.I quietly passed them on to Bassishaw, with the message still moist uponthem. It is only once in a lifetime you see _Tristan_ through such amedium.
The next interval Bassishaw did not smoke, but remained in his stall. Hehad heard the love duet, too. I turned to him.
"That was wonderful music, Bassishaw," I said.
"Yes," he replied. "Do you know, Butterfield, I think it's awful fine,by Jove. I can understand Johnnies doing that kind of thing, you know."
"Quite so," I answered. "To the Artist-Soul"--(I capitalised the wordspompously with my voice)--"to the Artist-Soul, creation is not a choice,but a need. The French realise that in their word _besogne_----"
He was not listening, and broke in:
"You know, Butterfield, a Johnny must have a darned useful brain-box onhim to do that--that sort of thing. It made me feel no end queer.There's an awful lot in it, don't you think?"
Poor Bassishaw thought he understood the music, but it was theopera-glasses that had fetched him. He went on:
"It's darned funny that a chap should do that instead of drill and depotwork, you know, Butterfield. You know, I always thought too confoundedmuch of curves and trajectory, and all that stuff. I always thought achap was a bit of a muff who fooled with music and verses and all that,do you know."
The confession was not without a touch of the pathetic, but I maintaineda diplomatic silence.
After a thoughtful pause he continued:
"Do you think, Rollo--do you think--would--would Carrie ever do anythingof that sort?--I--I--mean, somet
hing that makes a chap feel--oh, hangit, you know what I mean."
What could I say? My little sister was looking very miserable--abstracttruth is all very well--I temporised.
"Well, Bassishaw, it can't be done without trying. You've got to stickat it. The continual _enfantement_----"
"I know," he interrupted, "sort of keep it up steady, like these gunneryJohnnies. It must be darned hard. Do you know, Butterfield," he said,dropping his voice suddenly, "Carrie and I--we've had a kindof--nothing, you know--but--a bit of a split."
"You surprise me," I replied.
"Yes, we have, really; and I think I was a bit of a brute."
He rambled in explanations, which I punctuated with "Dear, dear." Carrielaid her hand on my sleeve, and I turned to her.
"Rol," she whispered, "do send Arthur for some coffee. I want to talk toyou."
Arthur was despatched to find a waiter, and I attended Carrie's pleasurewhile she twisted her fingers nervously through the opera-glasses.
"Rol," she said, "I'm so unhappy."
"The Wings of Sorrow have brushed your life and left it an Arid Waste,"I replied sententiously, hugely amused. She didn't divine the raillery.
"But surely, Rol, the heart is ripened through suffering," she repliedunconsciously.
"Yes," I replied. "The Separation of Souls is not Eternal. Those we loveare severed from us in the flesh, but in Heaven----"
She looked suspiciously, but my face was very grave. The waiter appearedwith coffee, and Arthur resumed his seat, this time without apology. Hewas anxious to make it up, but I didn't offer him my seat. I wanted tosee the particular kind of _finesse_ he would adopt, so lay low andwatched him.
The music recommenced, and Caroline, by some inattentiveness, retainedher coffee cup, which I believe she mentally identified with Isolde'slove potion. Bassishaw was revolving ways and means, but the cup hintwas not obvious to him. Isolde began the Liebestod song, while the headof the Vaaagnerite beyond Arthur was sunk in his hands, possibly not tosee the corpulent heroine, whose presence was somewhat disturbing to themusic. The Wagner hush was over all.
It was broken by Bassishaw. Unable to solve the difficulty, he cut theknot. His hand came over my knee, and took the hand of Caroline that washanging in limp appeal nearest him. She turned her face away, butallowed the hand to remain. It was all over, and I leaned back tocommune with my thoughts, and to adjust my mind to the prospect of beingonce more a superfluity.
"I say, Butterfield, old chap," Bassishaw whispered to me, "do you mindchanging places? This is rather awkward, you know."
"It is conspicuous," I replied, "but commendably frank. I rather admireyour way of doing these things, Bassishaw. But we can't change now.You'll have to wait your opportunity of giving me the slip in thefoyer--I've no doubt you'll attempt it."
It would do them no harm to wait a while.