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Flaming June

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<h3>Chapter Seventeen.</h3> The Moffatts appeared to have few private friends in London, and to show no anxiety to add to their number. Though they displayed an insatiable curiosity about everything which concerned their guest, they volunteered very little information in return, and after three days spent entirely in their society, Cornelia knew little more about them than on the first day of their meeting on shipboard. A mushroom city of the West figured as “home,” in occasional references; but the wife frankly declared a hatred of domesticity, while the husband regretted that constant travel was a necessity in his business. Evidently the present period was one of holiday-making, for Mr Moffatt seemed to do nothing but hang about the hotel, playing odd games of bridge or billiards with stray loafers like himself, and being correspondingly elated or depressed as he won or lost. On the whole, Cornelia preferred him when he was depressed. Exuberance of spirits is apt to wax offensive when divorced from good taste. At times she frankly disliked both husband and wife, and meditated an immediate return to Norton; but as a rule she was absorbed in the interest and charm of the grey old city, which was so unlike anything she had yet visited. It was like turning back a page of history, to see with her own eyes those historical landmarks, of which she had read since childhood; to drive about looking at the names of the streets, the monuments at the corners, the great, inky buildings. Visitors from sunnier lands often take away from our capital an impression of gloom and ugliness, but Cornelia’s artistic sense realised a picturesque element which rose superior to smoke and grime. She loved the narrow, irregular streets, the Turneresque haze which hung over the sky, even in this fine summer weather. The City was a solemn land of work, but the West End was a fairy realm of luxury and pleasure. Flowers everywhere, stacked up in great piles at the corners of the streets; hanging from window-boxes; massed together in the beds of the parks. The carriages blocked one another in the narrow roads; the balconies were draped with awnings; gorgeously-clad flunkeys stood upon the doorsteps, ushering in long streams of visitors. In the City men worked for money; in the West End they threw it away, carelessly, heedlessly, as if it had been dross. The great hotels sheltered hives of strangers, who admired and criticised, envied and scoffed, and flitted industriously about on the edge of the feast; on the edge, but never actually passing over the border! On the fourth morning of her stay in town, a note, addressed in a strange handwriting, was brought to Cornelia, with her morning tea. She guessed at its authorship before opening the envelope, and reading the name “Rupert Guest,” at the end of the letter. “Rupert!” A good name, an appropriate name! Strong and manly, with an old-world echo of dignity in the sound. One could not associate this man with abbreviations or nicknames. At work and at play, at home and abroad, he would remain plain, unabbreviated “Rupert.” One doubted if even his own mother ventured on a familiarity! Cornelia read the few lines with lively curiosity:— <blockquote> “Dear Miss Briskett,—I was disappointed to miss seeing you when I called at your hotel on Saturday. My aunt, Lady Seymour, is giving a reception to-morrow afternoon, and would be delighted to see you and your friends, if you have nothing better on hand. There ought to be some pretty good music. I will call at three o’clock, on the chance that you may care to come.—Yours faithfully, Rupert Guest.” </blockquote> Enclosed was a formal card of invitation, dated from Grosvenor Gate, “Miss Briskett and party” written on the corner. Cornelia sat banked up against her pillows, her ruddy locks framing her little face in a glory of rippling curls and waves, her lips pursed in slow reflection. “No-o! I guess Miss Briskett and party would rather not! I don’t see the fun of squeezing in among a lot of grandees, who don’t want anything of us but just to quiz and stare, and make remarks. If he’d asked me alone, I’d have risked it, just to see how they manage their shows over here; but he’s too proper to take me without a chaperon, and ... Well, anyway, the Moffatts are right-down good to me, and I’ll have no hand in having them snubbed! Miss Briskett will politely refuse, and the party won’t have a chance of accepting, for they won’t be told anything about it. I hate a fuss.” Cornelia went downstairs, deciding to write a letter before going out, and post it to the club; but during breakfast Mrs Moffatt announced with profuse apologies that she and her husband were obliged to devote the afternoon to visiting a friend living at some distance from town, and must therefore leave her to her own resources. Perhaps she would like to do a little shopping on her own account, take a drive, or visit a gallery! Cornelia, with a sudden rising of spirits, guessed she could find a dozen things to do, and bade her friends feel no anxiety on her score. She wrote no letters that morning, but sallied forth on the inevitable shopping excursion, with a particularly gay and jaunty air, and an inclination to bubble into laughter on the slightest provocation, at which Mrs Moffatt exclaimed in envy— “My, what spirits you do enjoy! I wish I could laugh like that. Some people have all the luck!” She sighed as she spoke, and Cornelia, glancing at her, caught a haggard look beneath the white veil. It occurred to her for the first time that her hostess was no longer young. She wondered how she would look at night, denuded of powder and rouge, and luxuriant golden locks? An elderly woman, thin and worn, with the crow’s feet deepening round her eyes. A woman whose life was spent in the pursuit of personal gain, and who reaped in return the inevitable harvest of weariness and satiety. Cornelia was too happy to judge her harshly. She was sorry for her and made a point of being unusually amiable during the long hours of trailing about from shop to shop, which were beginning to be a severe tax on her patience. Mrs Moffatt never seemed to make a purchase outright, but preferred to pay half a dozen visits to a shop, trying on garment or ornament, as the case might be, haggling over the price, and throwing small sops to the vendor, in the shape of the purchase of insignificant trifles. Cornelia herself was tempted to buy a number of articles which she neither needed nor knew exactly how to use, partly from want of something to do while her companion was occupied, and partly from a sense of shame, at giving so much trouble for nothing. Every day, also, boxes of fineries were sent “on approval,” to the hotel, so that one seemed to live in a constant atmosphere of milliner’s shop. Cornelia wondered to what purpose was this everlasting dressing up. The dejected Silas could hardly count as an audience, since he was the most indifferent of husbands, and it seemed a poor reward for so much trouble to receive the passing glances of strangers. “I hope when I settle down, I’ll have some real interest in life. I’ll take care that I have, too! I’d go crazed if there was nothing more to it than hanging round stores all the time,” said Cornelia to herself, as she bade farewell to her friends after lunch, and settled herself with a book in the corner of the lounge, to await Guest’s arrival. She was pleased at the prospect of meeting him again; mischievously amused at the anticipation of his embarrassment when he found that her chaperons had fled. It would be a delightful change to chat with him for half an hour, and when he departed to listen to the “pretty good music,” she herself would get into a hansom and drive to Saint Paul’s to listen to the wonderful boys’ voices chanting the evening service. Cathedrals were not included in the London known to Mrs Silas P Moffatt, but Cornelia was determined not to leave the metropolis without visiting the great temple of the East. After four days of pure, undiluted Moffatt, she felt mentally and spiritually starved. It would be good to leave the world and sit apart awhile beneath the great dome... At five minutes past three by the clock, Guest appeared in the doorway of the hotel, made an inquiry of the porter, and was directed to Cornelia’s sheltered seat. She saw him cast a glance over her neat, walking costume, as he approached, and naughtily determined to prolong his uncertainty. On her own side, she honestly admired his appearance; compared him to his advantage with the other men in the hall, and was proud to welcome him as her friend. Her little, white face was sparkling with animation, as she held out her hand to greet him. “How d’you do, Captain Guest? It’s real good of you to come again so soon. I was sorry to miss you Saturday afternoon.” “So was I.” Guest seated himself, and deposited his hat carefully by his side. “I waited half an hour, and then gave it up, and went to loaf in the Park. It’s the only thing to do before dinner.” “I saw you there, standing on the sidewalk talking to two ladies, an old one, and a young one, as pretty as—” “A moss rose!” he suggested quickly, and they laughed together over the remembrance. “Were you driving? I wish I had seen you! Is—er—Mrs Moffatt quite well?” “Puffectly, thank you,” said Cornelia, calmly. She noted the quick glance around, and wondered if he felt it compromising to sit with her alone, even in the publicity of a hotel lounge. “We drive most afternoons, and go to the theatre every evening. I’m having a giddy time—just about as different from Norton as it’s possible to imagine! Have you heard anything from the Manor? That wretched girl has never sent me as much as a postal, and I’m dying to hear what’s going on.” “No. I’ve heard nothing. I never for a moment expected that I should. Greville is too much engaged.” Guest knitted his brows, bitched his trousers at the knee, and cleared his throat uncertainly. Cornelia divined that he was waiting for her to refer to his aunt’s invitation, and feeling somewhat at a loss to account for the severity of her costume. At last the question came out suddenly. “Er—you got my note?” “I did! I thank you for it. It was real kind of good to take the trouble. I suppose you had to go and ask for those invitations?” “I asked, of course, but my aunt was delighted to give them. It will be quite worth going to, I think—good music, and something of a function! You would enjoy seeing the people. I hope you are not going to say that you can’t come!” “What makes you think that, I wonder? Don’t I look smart enough? I’m sorry you don’t approve of my costume!” She sat up straight in her seat; a smart little hat perched on the top of shaded locks; a neat little stock beneath the rolled-back collar of her coat; minute little shoes, with ridiculous points, appearing beneath the hem of her skirt. Guest looked her over deliberately, his dark face softening into a very charming smile. “I do! Very much indeed!” “Maybe it’s a trifle homely, but it’s best to strike a balance. Mrs Moffatt’s apt to be a bit gaudy on these occasions.” “It is very good of her to take so much trouble. Is—er—is she nearly ready, do you know?” Cornelia had been narrowly on the watch for the flicker of dismay on Guest’s face; it came surely enough, but was suppressed by such a gallant effort that, to use her own vernacular, she “weakened” at the sight. The impish light died out of her eyes, and she said frankly— “I guess I’ve been jollying all the time! Mrs Moffatt’s gone with her husband to visit a friend who lives quite a good way out, and she won’t be back before seven. I didn’t tell her of your invitation, as her plans were made, so it wasn’t worth while. I’m ‘alone in London’ for the afternoon. Sounds kinder pathetic, don’t it; but I’m enjoying it very well.” “Then—er—am I to have the pleasure of taking you alone?” Cornelia threw him a glance of tragic reproach. “Captain Guest! I’m surpr-iz-ed! How dare you take advantage of my unprotected position, to make such a suggestion? In England young girls—nice young girls, do not go about with young gentlemen unchaperoned. I’m shocked at you! I should have believed you would have been more considerate!” “We could start early. I could introduce you to my aunt. She would find some ladies, with whom you could sit during the concert.” Cornelia made a grimace, the reverse of appreciative. “No, thank you; I guess not! I’m not over-fond of sitting with ladies at any time, but strange ones are the limit. You tell your aunt that it’s real kind of her, and I vury much regret that I don’t want to go. I’ve fixed-up just how I’m going to spend the afternoon. First, I’m going to give you some coffee—the waiter’s bringing it along—then, when you go off to your crush, I shall get into a hansom and drive away into the City, to Saint Paul’s. The service is at four. I’ll sit right by myself, and listen till that’s over, then I’ll go round and see the tombs. Quite a number of big people are buried there, I’m told.” “Saint Paul’s!” Guest’s tone was eloquent of amazement. “But why Saint Paul’s, of all places on earth? Why not hit on something livelier, while you are about it? There’s a splendid exhibition of paintings in Bond Street, and the Academy, of course, and the Wallace Collection—half a dozen shows which are worth seeing. Why go into the City on a day like this?” “Because I want to! I’ve had four days cram full of—” She hesitated, seeking for a word that would not incriminate her hosts—“of fuss, and I want something else for a change. From all I hear, Saint Paul’s is a kinder big, and soothing, and empty. You can sit and think without being jostled up against someone else all the time. I don’t suppose there’s a more sociable creature on earth than I am myself, but every now and then I’ve just got to get away and have things out by myself.” Guest sipped his coffee in thoughtful silence, glancing at Cornelia from time to time, with eyes full of a new diffidence. An impulse gripped him, an impulse so extraordinary that he hesitated to put it into words. He wanted to go to Saint Paul’s too; to drive beside Cornelia through the streets, to see her face as she sat in the dim old cathedral; that softened, tremulous face, of which he had caught a glimpse once before, the memory of which lived with him still. When the service was over, he wanted to be her guide, to climb with her the tortuous staircase, and look down on the ant-like figures in the streets below; to descend with her to the subterranean vaults. ... He, Rupert Guest, wished to visit Saint Paul’s on a grilling June afternoon, in preference to attending a fashionable rendezvous—what madness was this which possessed him? It was rank folly; he would be ashamed to put the request into words. Pshaw! it was only the impulse of a moment—he would never think of it again. Then he looked at Cornelia once more, and heard himself say, in deliberate tones— “May I come with you? I should not interrupt. If you prefer, I could sit in another place during the service, but I’d like to come. Afterwards we could go round together. It would be good of you to give me the chance.” “But—the reception?” “Oh, hang the reception! I’m not sure that I should go in any ease. Do let me come, Miss Briskett. I want to. Badly!” Cornelia hesitated, staring at him with puzzled eyes. “You seemed to think Saint Paul’s a pretty queer choice when I mentioned it a few minutes back!” “I did; more shame to me, I suppose; but then you explained your reasons.—I don’t pretend that I should care to go by myself, but if you take me as your companion, it might be good for me, too. ... Would it disturb you to have me there?” “No-o,” said Cornelia, slowly. “I’d as lief you were there as not! I feel differently since I heard that story. ... You must need heartening up sometimes. Let’s go right along then, and see if we ken’t lay in a store of good thoughts, that will help us along for quite a while. Will you order a cab?...” Guest walked in silence to the door of the hotel. By his own request he was going to attend a church afternoon service with Cornelia Briskett! The thing seemed too extraordinary to be believed! He took his seat in the hansom in a kind of stunned surprise. Truly, every man was a stranger to himself, and there was no foretelling what an hour might bring forth! Cornelia turned to survey herself in the slip of mirror, and carefully adjusted the set of her hat. “Say!” she cried, laughingly, “we’ve forgotten that chaperon! Suppose you think one’s not needed in a cathedral.” She paused, dimpling mischievously. “Well! that’s just as you’re made. I guess if I were set on it, I could flirt in a crypt!” <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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