Chapter III

To say less than that Max was seriously shocked when he heard from Marion's own lips of the loss of her voice, would be to do him an injustice; and he spent the evening after he had seen her started back to Standing, in a very depressed state of mind.

He felt, in fact, that he could not quite face his people; and the thought of his club in St. James' came to him as a great relief. He telephoned from Liverpool Street for a table, and then to Guy Markheim to meet him in the dining-room at eight. (He had asked Marion whether her news was to be regarded as confidential, and had received the very natural answer that there was no kind of reason for keeping it so. It would be in the papers by the next evening, no doubt.)

St. George's club is very new, and therefore very comfortable. There are no dingy waiting-rooms. There is a big hall at the entrance, with innumerable tables and club arm-chairs, with a tape continually ticking out the news, and a long reading-desk for newspapers, resembling a lectern multiplied by ten lengthways. An opulent staircase descends from the first floor, where are situated the dining-rooms and card-rooms and smoking-room. The deep carpets that lie everywhere, the noiseless plate-glass doors, and the discreet and quiet servants in their dark blue livery with a red collar, combine to make it a very tolerable caravanserai of peace and comfort.

But he was sincerely melancholy as he came in a few minutes before eight. He nodded to Guy, who started up from the corner, and went straight through to the cloak-room, letting the door swing behind him: but he was astonished to feel a hand on his shoulder as he was getting his coat off, and to see that Guy had followed him, looking rather perturbed.

"I say, old man: is it true? "

" Is what true? " demanded Max.

"Why: about Miss Tenterden's voice. It can't be! But it's just been rapped out on the tape. Central News."

" Yes," said Max, in a low voice, handing over his coat.

" Good God! " said Guy.

" I saw her to-day," said Max, as they went back into the hall. " She came up to tell her manager. I was going to tell you. I suppose he must have sent it to the news agency."

" But — — "

" Yes: I know. We'll talk about it at dinner."

The dining-room is a model of comfortable art; and the chef is excellent. Max found that his table had been reserved for him, according to his message, in a corner where it was possible to talk without being overheard; and he spent the first five minutes in selecting the dinner. There was a clear soup: a fillet of sole; a wild-duck, and " angels-on-horseback " for a savoury. Max did not feel up to more: and Guy, it appeared, had no particular preferences and not much of an appetite. There was also selected, after a little consultation, a good little white wine. It was just a model of a dinner, thought Max, for one in his state of melancholy.

They did not talk a great deal till the duck appeared. Max just told his friend the outline of the story, and how the verdict had been ratified. The poor girl's voice was completely gone: there was no hope whatever that it would come back. Sir John had said so himself. Guy gave vent to the proper exclamations.

The conversation, however, became slightly more animated, as the duck disappeared, and considerably more than half of the Niersteiner.

" It's one of the greatest tragedies I've ever come across," said Max; " but she's a brave little girl. She told me quite simply."

"Ah! "said Guy.

" Every one has been delightfully kind, she says," he continued. " Her old German professor actually cried, she told me: and even Harrison was as decent as... as a Jew who pretends he isn't one, could be expected to be. I'm sure they ought to be. They must have made a little fortune out of her between them."

" No doubt they're honestly sorry," remarked Guy cynically. " I'm sure I should be."

" But think what it must be to her," went on Max. " She only came out in January, you know: she hasn't had six months of it, all told. (Yes: I think another half-bottle. ) It really is one of the most terrible things I've ever heard of. It's given me a real shock."

" You know her rather well, don't you? "

" Yes: quite well. My sister's a friend of hers. She was with us in Scotland last year, you know. Hullo! There's old Sir Robert! Who's he dining with, I wonder? And I wonder if he's heard. He admired her awfully, you know."

Guy turned in his seat.

" Yes, there he is. Why, he's coming

Max stood up respectfully as the famous old soldier came.

" Ah! good evening, Merival. Good evening, Markheim. Is this news about Miss Tenterden true? I saw it on the tape downstairs."

" I'm afraid so. I... I happened to meet her only to-day. She came up to tell her manager."

" But is there no hope? "

" None at all. The specialist was absolutely certain. It's the result of a little operation — quite unimportant in itself, too."

The old man was silent a moment.

" Poor child! " he said suddenly. " Well: I mustn't stay: my friend's waiting. But, if you see her or write to her, you might just give her my sympathy. Poor child! the one single gift she had, poor little soul! And what a loss to the English opera-house, too!"

" Yes: it's very sad. I'll tell her what you say."

" Thanks."

Max sat down again, as the old man with a nod and a smile went back to his own table.

" Now there's a kind old boy! " he said.

" Oh, yes; he's all right," said Guy rather coldly. " Is he a great friend of yours? "

" Not particularly. Why?"

" He's a heartless old chap, rather: that's all. He's kind enough as long as it doesn't cost him any trouble. It doesn't go very deep."

"Is that so?"

" He doesn't like me," pursued Guy, busy with his ** angel-on-horseback "; " because I happen to know about him; at least I happen to know something he once did."

"What was that?"

" Oh! nothing much. It was only about one of his servants, who came to me from him: said he was a real Tartar in private, though he has family prayers and all that. Anyhow, he grossly underpaid this man and finally sacked him without a character. These big men have generally got a leak somewhere. Well, that's his. He's charming enough on the top: but there's nothing much underneath."

The club was delightfully empty now that August had begun: and the two friends were fortunate enough to find the little extra reading-room under the stairs actually empty. Max ordered a couple of chasse-cafes, coffee and cigars to be brought to them there. His melancholy was certainly lightened; but it was still upon him. There are some woes for which even a dinner and a bottle of Niersteiner and a chasse-cafe resembling an oily rainbow cannot remove altogether. He suddenly sighed.

" I say, old man," said Guy, who was feeling very communicative, and quite undiplomatic in spite of his experience in Constantinople.

"Yes?"

" I'm going to say something most infernally impertinent. D'you mind? "

Max glanced up. He did not look offended.

" Go on," he said.

"Well: it's about that girl. I rather fancied — • eh?"

Max was silent.

"I daresay I'm wrong," pursued Guy. "Anyhow, it's not my business. But when we went down to see her the other day "

Max sighed again, and shifted his position. But it sounded like a sigh of relief.

" You're perfectly right," he said. " And I'm rather glad you've spoken of it. I'm in a devil of a hole: and I'd like your advice."

" Ah! " said Guy wisely.

" To prevent misunderstanding I might as well say straight off that I've been engaged to her ever since January."

" Good Lord! " said Guy, really shocked. " Do you mean that? "

" Yes: I do. No more and no less. This is absolutely confidential, of course. If my people heard of it, they'd have a fit. I rather think my sister suspected something at one time; but she certainly doesn't now. I've been too damned careful. Well: this is the hole I'm in. I'm absolutely dependent on the governor; and what I'd meant to do was to go to him this month or next, and get him to put me into something. I'm not much good at business: but I suppose I could get along. Then when I was more or less independent, the thing was to come off. Well: now it seems to me the whole thing's muddled. She's lost her income: and I don't suppose she's saved much this year. Of course if this vile thing hadn't happened we'd have been pretty well off. But how the devil are we to live on what I make?"

"Won't jour people come round? "

My dear chap! You might as well try to move the Bank of England. I know perfectly well what the governor wants. He wants me to marry some one of our own sort — some pretty little thing with no brains, and, if possible, a title. I don't want to say what I shouldn't: but you know, he's got a little bit of the snob in him. Well, if I did that, he'd allow me, I daresay, five or six thousand a year at least. But a girl like Marion! — Good Lord, no! He doesn't even get on with her very well."

" Haven't you got any one else you could go to? "

" Not a soul, except the Jews. I've no doubt they'd make me big advances on my prospects. But then I don't want to go to the Jews. Besides, the governor might live another twenty years, easily. I'm sure I hope he will. And if I did this, there's no knowing what he mightn't do. There's not much entailed, you know."

" But you'd have had. to face that, anyhow," said Guy.

" Yes: I know I should. But I shouldn't have minded if I'd been really independent without him. If this infernal thing hadn't happened, I daresay she'd have been making twenty thousand herself, in a year or two."

There was silence. Guy drew several soul-satisfying draughts on his cigar.

"Well "he began.

"Yes?"

" I know what I should do."

" Well: go on: that's what I want to hear."

Guy paused again for a second. He was not sure how his friend would take his next remark.

" Well: I should put the case before her: exactly as it stands."

Max 'flushed a little.

" You mean "

" I mean exactly what I say. She struck me as exceedingly sensible "

" I'm not a cad! " interrupted Max: " that simply means throwing her over."

" It means nothing of the sort," asserted Guy with some warmth; " it means being simply honest. She's got as much right to know what lies before her, as you have "

" She knows already," said Max.

" Yes: but I bet she doesn't realise it; and she won't, unless you put it plainly. What girl would? It seems to me that in simple justice you are bound to tell her the facts; that you will have nothing whatever, except what you make; that you have no expectations for years — in fact, all that you've been telling me. At any rate she'll know then what to expect."

" I tell you she does know."

Guy shrugged his shoulders.

** Very well then. There's nothing else for you to do."

There was silence again.

Max was thinking furiously. Somehow that food and wine seemed to have warmed up his wits as well as his emotions. Yet he was not thinking very consecutively: he thought just how tragic it all was: how fond he was of Marion; how pathetically simple she had been this afternoon; how astounding was the ill-fortune that had befallen not only her but him also. For it was not the loss of her income and her prospects, not even the loss of her voice, that lay most heavily upon his mind, but the loss of that appeal to the imagination with which her stage-life endowed her. He was beginning to catch very penetrating glimpses of this last point. Of course Marion was Marion, but then Marion had also been Elsa and was Elsa no longer. She had lost that particular glamour. However, obviously, he said to himself that was not the main affair, as regarded by reason: the chief trouble was that the mere material future was affected, and he could not see how to act.

"What does Miss Brent say? " asked Guy suddenly.

"Miss Brent? Why: she doesn't know. You see there's some trouble about her religion too. Marion Tenterden's a Catholic; and it seems she'll have to break with the Church."

" Break with the Church? Why? "

" Oh! there are some ridiculous conditions which neither she nor I would dream of giving in to: so it seems that the Catholics won't recognise the marriage. Damned idiots! Just like them."

" By Gad! I didn't know she was a Catholic."

" I told you, didn't I? Anyhow, she is. And that makes it all the worse with my people. The governor simply loathes them. That's another point. I'd forgotten that."

"Lord! what a tangle!" sighed Guy. "Then there's no hope from Miss Brent."

" I should think not! Marion thinks Miss Brent will chuck her altogether, as soon as she knows."

" My dear man, I'm sorry for you! "

" What the devil's the good of saying that? " snapped Max, suddenly irritated. It did indeed seem a tangle, elicited point by point by Guy.

" Sorry, old man! "

Max grunted.

Ill

Small irritations fell on him thickly this evening, to make his affairs look still darker.

As he came into the hall at home, his father was crossing it, and stopped.

" That you, Max? "

« Yes."

" Where have you been? "

" Dining at the club. I told mother."

Lord Merival looked vexed.

" I know you did. But you didn't tell her till after seven: and it threw her table out. I wish you would try to remember those little things, my boy. It was extraordinarily inconvenient. Mr. Per civ al had to dine with us, at short notice."

Max was silent. He saw perfectly what had happened. There had been a minute dinner-party, entirely unimportant: his mother had only mentioned it very casually, and had told him Irs absence didn't matter really, if he wanted to go out. But his father had heard of it, and had ordered his unhappy little secretary to serve as substitute; and he didn't like Mr. Percival to come to dinner too often: it might exalt him overmuch and make him a bad secretary.

" Try to think a little more of your mother's convenience, my boy, and less of your own."

"Sorry."

" That's all right. By the way, is it true that that girl — Miss Tenterden, isn't it? — has lost her voice? Norah told us it was on the placards, as she came."

" It was on the tape at the club," said Max cautiously.

" Ah! well. Sad if it's really true. Good night, my boy."

" Good night, father."

His depression came down on him with renewed weight when he finally sat down in the smoking-room. The very tone that his father had used just now, in speaking of Marion, emphasised, quite lightly but quite distinctly, his attitude towards her. She was " that girl," and it was really " quite sad " if she had indeed lost her voice. That was all. And it was " that girl " whom he himself was to marry, next year at the latest!

He drank a generous mouthful, and considered it all over again.

One thing was perfectly clear, that he must not in the remotest degree allow his behaviour to resemble that of a cad. Not of course that he could have any intention of that kind, in reality — how could he have? For was he not simply devoted to Marion? But he must not say or do anything that might lead her to suspect that he even cared in the smallest degree for either the social or the financial aspect of their future. In fact the safest thing was to say nothing at all about finance, unless she did. After all, by this time next year he would probably have a competence: it would not be very comfortable, but it would be sufficient. And, as for the social side, really that did not matter. It was surely an axiom in English society that a wife took the rank of her husband. There might be a few difficulties, just at first: it would be very tiresome, for instance, if they had to go and live in a suburb — perhaps even in Bedford Park itself! But things would right themselves, at any rate in a year or two.

He took another mouthful.

It was really curious what a glamour the stage had; and, above all, the operatic stage; even what a dignity it conferred. It was quite a different thing from Musical Comedy: he had passed through that callow period at least two years ago. But the Operatic Stage — that was a serious matter. Really it was a distinction to have a wife who came from it. How splendid she had been as Elsa! He could see her, now, in his imagination — in that white costume of the First Act. How she had held the house! What a rustle there had been, and then what a silence, as she began to sing. And, what a storm of voices and hands as she ended! That storm seemed to irradiate her figure as he regarded it. And that girl, that incarnate fountain of music, that glorious bride of Lohengrin, was to be his bride....

Ah! how sad that all that w&,s ended!

He took another mouthful: and presently his eyes filled gently with tears.

Poor dear Marion! What a tragic thing it all was! But he would make it up to her; and he lit a final cigarette in his generosity. Of course they would be most happy together. Who could possibly doubt that? After all, love was the thing that mattered; and how dearly he loved that trim alert creature, so oddly like a boy in some of her moods, who had gone deer-stalking with him in Scotland, who had ridden with him and Norah in the Park.

Really it was all perfectly right: and he was a fool to let those miserable financial and social things worry him. What did it matter, after all, what people said? What did it matter, if you come to that, what even his father said, or did: or Norah? Certainly Norah had done well for herself: Gerald was an ass; but he was a good ass; and undoubtedly most respectable as a husband.

Ah! well! Marion and he would be happier: for they had what obviously Norah and Gerald could not have. They would be happy — very happy indeed.

He finished his whisky, and threw away his cigarette.

He woke once in the night, and his mood was still on him. The hush of a London early morning — the hush, at any rate, of Park Lane at that hour, helped to quiet any misgivings. It would all be perfectly right.... He must not behave like a cad... he must not take Guy's advice.... They would be exquisitely happy together.

Dear Marion!...

Poor Marion!...

Poor dear Marion!.