Fate Cannot Harm Me (20 page)

“The melon,” said Sir Smedley, “has been calculated by scientists to contain ninety-eight per cent of water, and is considered a good fruit—as an appetizer. I will, however, taste it as it's your own growing.”

He helped himself to a slice, and tasted it cautiously.

“I hope you find it good,” said his hostess with determined brightness.

“If you can imagine water which is solid, and which
is not, however, ice, you can form a fairly accurate idea of this particular melon.”

“Oh, dear,” cried Lady Dormansland, “I'm afraid you don't like the flavour, then. Don't eat it, Sir Smedley.”

“I have no intention whatever of doing so,” replied the egotist, who had already selected a peach from the dish in front of him.

“I hope you like the peach?” asked Lady Dormansland after an anxious pause.

Sir Smedley Patteringham considered the question carefully before he made his reply.

“It is,” he said at length, “superior to the melon.”

Lady Dormansland breathed freely once more.

“I always think it remarkable,” she said, “that so many of our poets and writers love to describe fruit and flowers in the garden, and say nothing worth saying about fruit or indeed food of any kind on the dining-table.”

Her effort to change the conversation into safer channels was not a successful one.

“On the contrary,” said Sir Smedley with decision, “there is much good writing about food. Some really excellent things have been said on that topic. And that reminds me of a magnificent account of a dish, served, I fancy, in a railway train. Perhaps some one here can tell me who wrote it? It goes like this.

“‘Turbot,' said the waiter, as he handed me a plate on which were some bones, an eyeball, and a piece of black mackintosh.”

He looked round challengingly, but no one hazarded a guess at the author. Lady Dormansland, realizing a little later that there had been turbot for the fish that evening, caught the eye of Lady Sevenoaks, and shepherded the ladies somewhat hastily from the dining-room.

“Variety's the source of joy below,

From whence still fresh revolving pleasures flow.

In books and love, the mind one end pursues,

And only change th' expiring flame renews.”

JOHN GAY

As the men shifted their chairs to fill the gaps, Monty noted with amusement that Basil and Robin moved away from one another without hesitation. He, for his own part, prepared to listen with as good a grace as possible to a disquisition from Bursar Browne on the prices of agricultural produce, though he was aware that his attention was fixed rather on the rest of the company than on his immediate neighbour. Watching Sir Smedley and Bullerton punishing the port with an assiduity which the vintage warranted, he was afraid that he might have to fill the rôle of listener and observer for a lengthy period. His fear was ungrounded. Lord Dormansland knew his place in his own household much too well to deprive his wife of male society longer than was absolutely necessary. With a little sigh of resignation he suggested joining the ladies as soon as politeness allowed him.

In her character as hostess Lady Dormansland was not accustomed to allow her guests to relax or to contrive their own amusements. With her air of determined brightness she imposed upon all such amusements and recreations as seemed to her suitable. To organize the lives of others in their minor details was a source of pleasure to her, and she was never really happy if her guests enjoyed themselves in any manner not suggested by herself. So now, as the men trooped into the drawing-room, she met them with her proposal for the evening's entertainment.

“We must have our bridge,” she declared, “I simply couldn't go to bed without it. I think we ought to have three tables to-night. And those who don't play must go to the billiard-room. Robert, you must take them there. (Lord Dormansland signified his assent.) But before we start on the serious games of the evening I do think we ought to have some sort of intellectual game for all of us. There are so many clever people here; it would be a pity not to do something like that.”

“That would be lovely,” declared Mrs. Vanhaer.

“Now what shall we play?” Lady Dormansland looked round expectantly, but no one volunteered a suggestion.

Lady Dormansland's proposal was no sudden whim. The truth was that she really detested bridge, though she regarded herself as an authority on the game. Years before, when she had first begun to play, she had announced her devotion to it—she had, so to speak, publicly proclaimed her patronage and taken the game of bridge under her protection. Ever since, her unquenchable pugnacity had prevented her from withdrawing from the position which she had taken up. She had announced that bridge was her favourite game; it was so, and so it must remain, for she was a woman to whom second thoughts were unknown. Retreats, recantations, compromises—such words belonged to women of inferior breed. She was convinced, it is true, that she invariably held bad cards—and she regarded this phenomenon as a sort of
lèse-majesté
on the part of fortune; she suspected, and often declared, that her partners always misunderstood her and involved her in disasters; she knew from the evidence of her chequebook that she lost considerable sums of money. In fact she played exceedingly badly and always over-called her hands, though no one dared to tell her so. So now, whilst proclaiming her desire for a game, and indeed announcing the necessity of following out the accustomed
ritual, she nevertheless put forth all her efforts to postpone as long as she could the evil hour when she must actually begin to play.

“I know what we'll do,” she said, as though struck by a happy inspiration—“not actually a game, but really much more amusing. There are lots of literary people here; we'll make each of them tell us a story in turn. I'm sure it must be much easier to tell a story than to write one down. And how delicious to hear a story now, and then read it in a month or two in
Blackwood's
or, or—
Blackwood's
or some magazine like that. Now, Mr. Hedley, I always love reading what you write; come and sit by me and tell us all a story to start the others off.”

Robin Hedley looked almost as embarrassed as he felt. “Does the woman think I'm a sort of court fool to amuse her guests?” he thought angrily to himself. Aloud he stammered a not very gracious excuse.

“I really can't, Lady Dormansland, much as I should like to. The sort of things I write are not suitable; I don't work or think in that kind of way at all. I should only bore you.”

“Then some one else must give you a lead,” said his hostess, who was quite undaunted by his refusal. “Basil, you shall begin; I know
you
won't fail me.”

Basil Paraday-Royne owed his social success in no small measure to his willingness to fall in with the whims and fancies of those who entertained him. Hostesses were always charmed by his enthusiasm in carrying out their suggestions. He was, too, a natural exhibitionist, and he was not averse from showing off before Cynthia, especially after Robin had declined to shine. He smiled therefore a deprecating but not unwilling assent, and the rest of the party settled themselves in comfort to listen to him.

“Well, let me see,” he began. “I'll do my best, but this is rather a sudden call. I think, perhaps, I'll tell
you a little tale that came to my notice a short while ago. It's hardly a story—nothing so important as that—call it a sketch, a pastiche, a vignette, an impression—what you will, but remember that it's the merest trifle. Still it does, I think, just flash a light for a moment on a woman's character, and to me it's vivid enough, and—a little sad. I'll call it—let me see—I'll call it ‘Mrs. Millabie's Vase.'”

“What a divine title,” murmured Mrs. Vanhaer. Monty, who could not see her face, was unable to gauge her precise meaning.

“Mrs. Millabie was a widow, and she lived in a flat not very far from Sloane Square. She was thirty-five or perhaps a trifle more, but at night she looked thirty, and she knew as much about dresses as most dressmakers, and more, I fancy, about make-up than an act …, than, shall we say, the beauty specialist of the
Daily View
. (A hasty glance at Angela Greyne had caused him to change the end of his sentence.) Mrs. Millabie was bright and cheerful and helpful and popular. Yes, universally and deservedly popular. If any of her friends needed some one at the last moment to complete a party for dinner or lunch or the theatre or bridge—it was to her they turned. She enjoyed things so much that she made any party go; if she lost at bridge (which she seldom did, for she played exceedingly well) she would lose with the most charming grace; it was a pleasure to receive a note from her—so delicately and appropriately phrased would it be, and yet so warmly affectionate. And then her devotion to her late husband! She hardly ever spoke of him, but when she did her gaiety would be for a moment dimmed, and she would relapse into silence. And then, as though determined that her own private grief should not spoil the happiness of her friends, she would become the gayest and most cheerful of them all. ‘Too pathetic!' her friends would say, ‘why, she ought to have married again years ago! How can such
a sweet and amusing creature, so full of life and so clever, and quite well off too, have remained a widow?' But in spite of all her friends Mrs. Millabie remained faithful to the memory of her husband; with a sweet yet sad little smile she would contrive to ward off the advances of all her many admirers. I wonder, can you picture her to yourselves at all?”

“Yes, the cat!” muttered Mrs. Vanhaer, who had followed the tale with the closest attention.

“On the day of which I am speaking, Mrs. Millabie was sitting in the living-room of her flat. I'd like you to have a picture of that room in your minds too. It was essentially a woman's room; the chintzes were bright, the flowers fresh and skilfully arranged, the books, though not numerous, seemed to be just those which a visitor would wish to read. There was nothing noticeable in the furniture, yet everything was in good taste—everything in the room indeed was bright, cheerful, welcoming. And though the atmosphere was subtly feminine it was in no sense, fussily or obtrusively so. I should describe it rather as a room where a man would like to be entertained by a woman; there were few ornaments or knick-knacks to disturb, the chairs were comfortable, the cigarettes lay to hand on a table by the fire. You felt instinctively as you entered that Mrs. Millabie would never hand you a stale box of Turkish when you needed a fresh Virginian; you felt, too, that if she opened the door of the corner cupboard she would bring out for you just the drink which you needed to restore a tired mind or to tickle a jaded palate.

“I said that there were few ornaments and hardly any knick-knacks and that the furniture was unobtrusive. All that is true, but there was one thing there which was in an altogether different category from the rest. On a low bookshelf behind the writing-table stood a single silver vase. Yes, Mrs. Millabie's Vase! It was beautiful, truly beautiful—I'm tempted to
call it, small though it was, a superb work of art.”

Basil made an almost apologetic gesture with his hands as though to excuse his own enthusiasm.

“How strange it is that one thing of beauty can outshine and eclipse everything else near it! Sometimes I think it's the same with people; one doesn't like to be a snob, but don't you all feel that the person of real breeding somehow stands out in spite of himself wherever he is and makes less fortunate people seem a little—well—a little unworthy?”

“Yes, indeed, it's no good pretending that one person's as good as another, even nowadays,” said Lady Dormansland with decision. Twenty-five years of married life had made it easy for her to forget the wealthy draper whose only child she was.

“I've often thought that too,” lisped Angela Greyne, confident that no one present had any knowledge of her parentage. Robin Hedley scowled, but said nothing.

“Well, Mrs. Millabie's vase was like that. It was an aristocrat among vases, if I may put it so, and it dominated the room. It had the sort of calm strength allied with delicacy which a beautiful work in silver can have; I don't know its history, nor how it came to be there, but Benvenuto Cellini would not, I think, have disowned it. Yes, in its way, it was superb. And Mrs. Millabie loved it; always, as she sat writing or talking or reading, her eyes would stray towards it, and she would feel refreshed and gladdened and comforted.

“And yet on the day of which I speak, though the vase appeared more beautiful than ever in the afternoon sunshine, Mrs. Millabie was clearly dissatisfied and unhappy. She was unwrapping a parcel, and a frown of annoyance had displaced her habitual smile. From the parcel, when it was undone, she took a silver flower-vase of modern design; she held it up and examined it
critically—with growing dissatisfaction she glanced from it to her own beautiful ornament. And she gave a sigh of disappointment and disapproval. The new vase was a wedding present for her friend, Margot Forbes, and it had cost her a great deal of trouble to choose. In the shop where she had paid five pounds for it, it had appeared to Mrs. Millabie, in the current phrase, to look twice its price. Now that she had bought, it and could examine it at leisure it seemed to her rather common and pretentious. And how her own vase killed it by comparison!

“It's proper now, I think, that I should let you into some of Mrs. Millabie's secrets, for after all this isn't a drama, but only, as I told you, a simple and unpretentious tale. It pains me to expose her, but the truth must out. First of all, then, Mrs. Millabie was not a widow at all. The husband, to whose memory she was so romantically and self-sacrificingly attached, had in fact left the country rather hurriedly some years ago, and had betaken himself to, I think, Majorca, where he was living—and drinking—under a suitable alias. And secondly, the ‘comfortable' income which Mrs. Millabie was supposed to possess was in reality very, very small indeed. Exactly how she contrived to keep up the appearance of affluence I do not propose to explain to you in detail. No doubt the bridge which she played with so much charm and good nature brought her in quite a little income; no doubt if you had examined her household books you would have realized that her host of friends provided her with most of her food and drink. Well, she was a clever woman. You can cast stones if you like, and call her an adventuress, but I'm bound to say that I admire her courage and her skill. Of all her friends Margot Forbes was the most devoted. Margot lived with her old father in Grosvenor Street, and at their house Mrs. Millabie was the ever-welcome guest. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays, she dined
there, once, twice, three times a week she would drop in to lunch. Then suddenly the blow had fallen; Margot had become engaged to be married. Of course Mrs. Millabie had foreseen that danger, indeed it would not be unfair to say that she had twice before averted it, for she was an experienced campaigner. But now she realized that she must make the best of a bad job; ruefully she realized that the dinners and the lunches and the parties of Grosvenor Street were lost to her; well, she must make it her business to keep Margot as a friend, and hope in time to insinuate herself into the life of her friend's new home. For that reason she had given long and anxious thought to her wedding present; the cards had been unkind of late and money was very short, still she hoped and believed that she could buy with five pounds something which Margot would believe to have cost eight or ten at the least. And now, after days of consideration and inspection, she had spent her money—and the result was profoundly disappointing.