Mrs Albert Forrester, for whom he had long laboured with but a trifling recompense, was not sorry to put him in the way of earning an honest penny, and she took care to introduce him, with warm expressions of gratitude, to anyone who might be supposed to have literary wares to sell. It was not without pride that she remembered that the notorious and vastly lucrative memoirs of Lady St Swithin had been first mooted in her drawing-room.
They sat in a circle of which Mrs Albert Forrester was the centre and discussed brightly and, it must be confessed, somewhat maliciously the various persons who had been that day present. Miss Warren, the pallid female who had stood for two hours at the tea-table, was walking silently round the room collecting cups that had been left here and there. She had some vague employment, but was always able to get off in order to pour out tea for Mrs Albert Forrester, and in the evening she typed Mrs Albert Forrester’s manuscripts. Mrs Albert Forrester did not pay her for this, thinking quite rightly that as it was she did a great deal for the poor thing; but she gave her the seats for the cinema that were sent her for nothing and often presented her with articles of clothing for which she had no further use.
Mrs Albert Forrester in her rather deep, full voice was talking in a steady flow and the rest were listening to her with attention. She was in good form and the words that poured from her lips could have gone straight down on paper without alteration. Suddenly there was a noise in the passage as though something heavy had fallen and then the sound of an altercation.
Mrs Albert Forrester stopped and a slight frown darkened her really noble brow.
“I should have thought they knew by now that I will not have this devastating racket in the flat. Would you mind ringing the bell, Miss Warren, and asking what is the reason of this tumult?”
Miss Warren rang the bell and in a moment the maid appeared. Miss Warren at the door, in order not to interrupt Mrs Albert Forrester, spoke to her in undertones. But Mrs Albert Forrester somewhat irritably interrupted herself.
“Well, Carter, what is it? Is the house falling down or has the Red Revolution at last broken out?”
“If you please, ma’am, it’s the new cook’s box,” answered the maid. “The porter dropped it as he was bringing it in and the cook got all upset about it.”
“What do you mean by ‘the new cook’?”
“Mrs Bulfinch went away this afternoon, ma’am,” said the maid.
Mrs Albert Forrester stared at her.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it. Had Mrs Bulfinch given notice? The moment Mr Forrester comes in tell him that I wish to speak to him.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
The maid went out and Miss Warren slowly returned to the tea-table. Mechanically, though nobody wanted them, she poured out several cups of tea.
“What a catastrophe!” cried Miss Waterford.
“You must get her back,” said Clifford Boyleston. “She’s a treasure, that woman, a remarkable cook, and she gets better and better every day.”
But at that moment the maid came in again with a letter on a small plated salver and handed it to her mistress.
“What is this?” said Mrs Albert Forrester.
“Mr Forrester said I was to give you this letter when you asked for him, ma’am,” said the maid.
“Where is Mr Forrester then?”
“Mr Forrester’s gone, ma’am,” answered the maid as though the question surprised her.
“Gone? That’ll do. You can go.”
The maid left the room and Mrs Albert Forrester, with a look of perplexity on her large face, opened the letter. Rose Waterford has told me that her first thought was that Albert, fearful of his wife’s displeasure at the departure of Mrs Bulfinch, had thrown himself in the Thames. Mrs Albert Forrester read the letter and a look of consternation crossed her face.
“Oh, monstrous,” she cried. “Monstrous! Monstrous!”
“What is it, Mrs Forrester?”
Mrs Albert Forrester pawed the carpet with her foot like a restive, high-spirited horse pawing the ground, and crossing her arms with a gesture that is indescribable (but that you sometimes see in a fishwife who is going to make the very devil of a scene) bent her looks upon her curious and excessively startled friends.
“Albert has eloped with the cook.”
There was a gasp of dismay. Then something terrible happened. Miss Warren, who was standing behind the tea-table, suddenly choked. Miss Warren, who never opened her mouth and whom no one ever spoke to, Miss Warren, whom not one of them, though he had seen her every week for three years, would have recognized in the street, Miss Warren suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter. With one accord, aghast, they turned and stared at her. They felt as Balaam must have felt when his ass broke into speech. She positively shrieked with laughter. There was a nameless horror about the sight, as though something had on a sudden gone wrong with a natural phenomenon, and you were just as startled as though the chairs and tables without warning began to skip about the floor in an antic dance. Miss Warren tried to contain herself, but the more she tried the more pitilessly the laughter shook her, and seizing a handkerchief she stuffed it in her mouth and hurried from the room. The door slammed behind her.
“Hysteria,” said Clifford Boyleston.
“Pure hysteria, of course,” said Harry Oakland.
But Mrs Albert Forrester said nothing.
The letter had dropped at her feet and Simmons, the agent, picked it up and handed it to her. She would not take it
“Read it,” she said. “Read it aloud.”
Mr Simmons pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and holding the letter very close to his eyes read as follows:
My Dear—
Mrs Bulfinch is in need of a change and has decided to leave, and as I do not feel inclined to stay on here without her I am going too. I have had all the literature I can stand and I am fed up with art.
Mrs Bulfinch does not care about marriage, but if you care to divorce me she is willing to marry me. I hope you will find the new cook satisfactory. She has excellent references. It may save you trouble if I inform you that Mrs Bulfinch and I are living at 411 Kennington Road, S.E.
Albert
No one spoke. Mr Simmons slipped his spectacles back on to the bridge of his nose. The fact was that none of them, brilliant as they were and accustomed to find topics of conversation to suit every occasion, could think of an appropriate remark. Mrs Albert Forrester was not the kind of woman to whom you could offer condolences and each was too much afraid of the other’s ridicule to venture upon the obvious. At last Clifford Boyleston came bravely to the rescue.
“One doesn’t know what to say,” he observed.
There was another silence and then Rose Waterford spoke.
“What does Mrs Bulfinch look like?” she asked.
“How should I know?” answered Mrs Albert Forrester, somewhat peevishly. “I never looked at her. Albert always engaged the servants, she just came in for a moment so that I could see if her aura was satisfactory.”
“But you must have seen her every morning when you did the housekeeping.”
“Albert did the housekeeping. It was his own wish, so that I might be free to devote myself to my work. In this life one has to limit oneself.”
“Did Albert order your luncheons?” asked Clifford Boyleston.
“Naturally. It was his province.”
Clifford Boyleston slightly raised his eyebrows. What a fool he had been never to guess that it was Albert who was responsible for Mrs Forrester’s beautiful food! And of course it was owing to him that the excellent Chablis was always just sufficiently chilled to run coolly over the tongue, but never so cold as to lose its bouquet and its savour.
“He certainly knew good food and good wine.”
“I always told you he had his points,” answered Mrs Albert Forrester, as though he were reproaching her. “You all laughed at him. You would not believe me when I told you that I owed a great deal to him.”
There
was no answer to this and once more silence, heavy and ominous, fell on the party. Suddenly Mr Simmons flung a bombshell.
“You must get him back.”
So great was her surprise that if Mrs Albert Forrester had not been standing against the chimney-piece she would undoubtedly have staggered two paces to the rear.
“What on earth do you mean?” she cried. “I will never see him again as long as I live. Take him back? Never. Not even if he came and begged me on his bended knees.”
“I didn’t say take him back; I said, get him back.”
But Mrs Albert Forrester paid no attention to the misplaced interruption.
“I have done everything for him. What would he be without me? I ask you. I have given him a position which never in his remotest dreams could he have aspired to.”
None could deny that there was something magnificent in the indignation of Mrs Albert Forrester, but it appeared to have little effect on Mr Simmons. “What are you going to live on?”
Mrs Albert Forrester flung him a glance totally devoid of amiability.
“God will provide,” she answered in freezing tones.
“I think it very unlikely,” he returned.
Mrs Albert Forrester shrugged her shoulders. She wore an outraged expression. But Mr Simmons made himself as comfortable as he could on his chair and lit a cigarette.
“You know you have no warmer admirer of your art than me,” he said.
“Than I,” corrected Clifford Boyleston.
“Or than you,” went on Mr Simmonds blandly. “We all agree that there is no one writing now whom you need fear comparison with. Both in prose and verse you are absolutely first class. And your style-well, everyone knows your style.”
“The opulence of Sir Thomas Browne with the limpidity of Cardinal Newman,” said Clifford Boyleston. “The raciness of John Dryden with the precision of Jonathan Swift.”
The only sign that Mrs Albert Forrester heard was the smile that hesitated for a brief moment at the corners of her tragic mouth.
“And you have humour.”
“Is there anyone in the world,” cried Miss Waterford, “who can put such a wealth of wit and satire and comic observation into a semi-colon?”
“But the fact remains that you don’t sell,” pursued Mr Simmons imperturbably. “I’ve handled your work for twenty years and I tell you frankly that I shouldn’t have grown fat on my commission, but I’ve handled it because now and again I like to do what I can for good work. I’ve always believed in you and I’ve hoped that sooner or later we might get the public to swallow you. But if you think you can make your living by writing the sort of stuff you do I’m bound to tell you that you haven’t a chance.”
“I have come into the world too late,” said Mrs Albert Forrester. “I should have lived in the eighteenth century when the wealthy patron rewarded a dedication with a hundred guineas.”
“What do you suppose the currant business brings in?”
Mrs Albert Forrester gave a little sigh.
“A pittance. Albert always told me he made about twelve hundred a year.”
“He must be a very good manager. But you couldn’t expect him on that income to allow you very much. Take my word for it, there’s only one thing for you to do and that’s to get him back.”
“I would rather live in a garret. Do you think I’m going to submit to the affront he has put upon me? Would you have me battle for his affections with my cook? Do not forget that there is one thing which is more valuable to a woman like me than her ease and that is her dignity.”
“I was just coming to that,” said Mr Simmons coldly.
He glanced at the others and those strange, lopsided eyes of his looked more than ever monstrous and fish-like.
“There is no doubt in my mind,” he went on, “that you have a very distinguished and almost unique position in the world of letters. You stand for something quite apart. You never prostituted your genius for filthy lucre and you have held high the banner of pure art. You’re thinking of going into Parliament. I don’t think much of politics myself, but there’s no denying that it would be a good advertisement and if you get in I daresay we could get you a lecture tour in America on the strength of it. You have ideals and this I can say, that even the people who’ve never read a word you’ve written respect you. But in your position there’s one thing you can’t afford to be and that’s a joke.”
Mrs Albert Forrester gave a distinct start.
“What on earth do you mean by that?”
“I know nothing about Mrs Bulfinch and for all I know she’s a very respectable woman, but the fact remains that a man doesn’t run away with his cook without making his wife ridiculous. If it had been a dancer or a lady of title I daresay it wouldn’t have done you any harm, but a cook would finish you. In a week you’d have all London laughing at you, and if there’s one thing that kills an author or a politician it is ridicule. You must get your husband back and you must get him back pretty damned quick.”
A dark flush settled on Mrs Albert Forrester’s face, but she did not immediately reply. In her ears there rang on a sudden the outrageous and unaccountable laughter that had sent Miss Warren flying from the room.
“We’re all friends here and you can count on our discretion.”
Mrs Forrester looked at her friends and she thought that in Rose Waterford’s eyes there was already a malicious gleam. On the wizened face of Oscar Charles was a whimsical look. She wished that in a moment of abandon she had not betrayed her secret. Mr Simmons, however, knew the literary world and allowed his eyes to rest on the company.
“After all you are the centre and head of their set. Your husband has not only run away from you but also from them. It’s not too good for them either. The fact is that Albert Forrester has made you all look a lot of damned fools.”
“All,” said Clifford Boyleston. “We’re all in the same boat. He’s quite right, Mrs Forrester. The Philatelist must come back.”
“Et tu, Brute.”
Mr Simmons did not understand Latin and if he had would probably not have been moved by Mrs Albert Forrester’s exclamation. He cleared his throat.
“My suggestion is that Mrs Albert Forrester should go and see him tomorrow, fortunately we have his address, and beg him to reconsider his decision. I don’t know what sort of things a woman says on these occasions, but Mrs Forrester has tact and imagination and she must say them. If Mr Forrester makes any conditions she must accept them. She must leave no stone unturned.”
“If you play your cards well there is no reason why you shouldn’t bring him back here with you tomorrow evening,” said Rose Waterford lightly.
“Will you do it, Mrs Forrester?”
For two minutes, at least, turned away from them, she stared at the empty fireplace; then, drawing herself to her full height, she faced them.
“For my art’s sake, not for mine. I will not allow the ribald laughter of the Philistine to besmirch all that I hold good and true and beautiful.”
“Capital,” said Mr Simmons, rising to his feet. “I’ll look in on my way home tomorrow and I hope to find you and Mr Forrester billing and cooing side by side like a pair of turtle-doves.”
He took his leave, and the others, anxious not to be left alone with Mrs Albert Forrester and her agitation, in a body followed his example.
It was latish in the afternoon next day when Mrs Albert Forrester, imposing in black silk and a velvet toque, set out from her flat in order to get a bus from the Marble Arch that would take her to Victoria Station. Mr Simmons had explained to her by telephone how to reach the Kennington Road with expedition and economy. She neither felt nor looked like Delilah. At Victoria she took the tram that runs down the Vauxhall Bridge Road. When she crossed the river she found herself in a part of London more noisy, sordid, and bustling than that to which she was accustomed, but she was too much occupied with her thoughts to notice the varied scene. She was relieved to find that the tram went along the Kennington Road and asked
the conductor to put her down a few doors from the house she sought. When it did and rumbled on leaving her alone in the busy street, she felt strangely lost, like a traveller in an Eastern tale set down by a djinn in an unknown city. She walked slowly, looking to right and left, and notwithstanding the emotions of indignation and embarrassment that fought for the possession of her somewhat opulent bosom, she could not but reflect that here was the material for a very pretty piece of prose. The little houses held about them the feeling of a bygone age when here it was still almost country, and Mrs Albert Forrester registered in her retentive memory a note that she must look into the literary associations of the Kennington Road. Number four hundred and eleven was one of a row of shabby houses that stood some way back from the street; in front of it was a narrow strip of shabby grass, and a paved way led up to a latticed wooden porch that badly needed a coat of paint. This and the straggling, stunted creeper that grew over the front of the house gave it a falsely rural air which was strange and even sinister in that road down which thundered a tumultuous traffic. There was something equivocal about the house that suggested that here lived women to whom a life of pleasure had brought an inadequate reward.
The door was opened by a scraggy girl of fifteen with long legs and a tousled head.
“Does Mrs Bulfinch live here, do you know?”
“You’ve rung the wrong bell. Second floor.” The girl pointed to the stairs and at the same time screamed shrilly: “Mrs Bulfinch, a party to see you. Mrs Bulfinch.”
Mrs Albert Forrester walked up the dingy stairs. They were covered with torn carpet. She walked slowly, for she did not wish to get out of breath. A door opened as she reached the second floor and she recognized her cook.
“Good afternoon, Bulfinch,” said Mrs Albert Forrester, with dignity. “I wish to see your master.”
Mrs Bulfinch hesitated for the shadow of a second, then held the door wide open.