Читать книгу This Publican - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 6

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A memorial service for Lord Elvin was held in the Temple Church. The life peer’s funeral in Essex was private enough. David Bohun, great-nephew, was there, and so was Forsyth: so, of course, were the servants: and so was Mrs. Bohun.

The solicitor, watching her closely, could find no fault in the girl. Her demeanour was admirable: her discretion stood out: her taste was above reproach. She shed no tears—why should she?—but comforted Mrs. Mason, who was in great distress. Afterwards she took care to leave Forsyth and her husband alone. They saw her from the library windows, proving the snow-clad park and walking with a telegraph-boy who was telling her all he did. Mrs. Bohun did more than attract: at times she inspired.

Forsyth saw only two things which might or might not be straws indicating the set of a wind which he could not feel. One was that the chauffeur’s mongrel, a friendly dog, denied the lady the homage he offered to everyone else: the other was that Bohun seemed pensive, and Forsyth was not quite sure that this was wholly due to Lord Elvin’s death.

Together the two considered the law lord’s Will. As Forsyth had known that he would, Bohun took the new Codicil very well.

“Why not, Forsyth?” he said. “We both know he’s done me proud: and how could I ever question wisdom like his?”

“I shall miss him terribly,” said Forsyth.

“I know you will,” said David. “But you have the consolation of knowing that you were the only being on whom he ever leaned.”

“That’s absurd,” said Forsyth, bending the documents flat.

“He swore by you,” said the other, and left it there.

The Will itself was simple. The town house and Jeffreys and their contents were to be sold forthwith for what they would fetch. For the three older servants annuities were to be bought. A picture went to Forsyth, a bust to the Inner Temple, the silver to David Bohun ...

At five o’clock that evening the Bohuns left in their car. Forsyth was staying the night—for the sake of the servants as much as anything else. Their occupation was gone. It would do them good to have someone they knew and trusted to be their guest.

Seated in his bedroom that night, the solicitor stared at the fire and fingered his chin. The duty which he had accepted was now alive, and Forsyth was not the man to let such a matter wait. Mrs. Bohun had to be cornered and forced to release her prey.

It was typical of the man that he would not let himself question the judgment Lord Elvin had formed. He assumed that the girl was guilty—against all reason, of course: but he knew that if once he looked back, his own opinion would tell him that that of Lord Elvin was wrong. And so the girl was guilty ... What was she guilty of? The judge had spoken of deceit—a vague enough crime. But this was so gross a case that under the threat of exposure the lady would do as he said.

Forsyth raised his eyebrows and got to his feet.

There was only one thing to be done. The present being obscure, the past must be discovered, to see if that shed any light. He would set on foot inquiries to-morrow—to find out who she was and whence she had come. A Miss Rowena Howard ...

As the man had determined, so he did. Exhaustive inquiries were made. They took some time to complete, cost more than two hundred pounds and taught him nothing at all that he wanted to know. This was nobody’s fault. Who should know that the leopard had changed his spots?

Elsie Baumer was a precocious child. This was natural enough. Before she was eight years old, the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil had become her staple food. This, again, was natural. She had ‘travelled the road’ with her mother almost from the day of her birth.

The provinces liked Mrs. Baumer, whom they knew as Cora Perowne. She never appeared in London, but starred for years everywhere else. Parts were rewritten to suit her—in musical shows. She never played a lead in her life, but, while leads come and go, Miss Cora Perowne went on. She was, as they say, a sure thing. For fifteen years a brazen mezzo voice stood her in stead: then the hot, vocal number came in, and she took on a new lease of life.

Whether Mr. Baumer existed is matter for doubt, but a daughter, Elsie, was born in 1914. Unknown to each other, two gentlemen paid for the accouchement, which the doctor did as a friend. Supported by these contributions, Cora stayed out of the bill for fully six months. Then she returned—with her baby, who became the company’s pet.

The infant, conveniently, resembled no possible sire. Indeed, what strain it was that reappeared in Elsie I cannot pretend to say. She never resembled her mother, within or without. Mrs. Baumer looked the ‘good sort’ she undoubtedly was.

The years slid by. Some sort of education took place, but Elsie Baumer’s school was the grimy kaleidoscope of provincial, theatrical life. A noticing child, she knew rather more at twelve than nine out of ten girls know at twenty-six.

Then something occurred to wake the iron ambition she had not known she possessed.

Travelling to a town in the midlands, the company entered the protectorate of one of those fishers of men who choose to believe in humanizing the stage. They had been warned. As well warn the private soldier en route for the front. They came, they were seen, they were netted. Aware of their captor’s good intentions, the company blasphemed in secret and rewarded his efforts openly. It sniggered when he jested in the wings, hid tumblers under towels when he knocked at a dressing-room door, submitted to photographic records of a jovial understanding which did not in fact exist. In an ecstasy of elation the bountiful angler concocted a luscious bonne bouche. The principals were formally invited to a private view of the parish Christmas Tree, erected in the brutal nakedness of the parish hall and enriched with tallow and tinsel to delight less fortunate eyes. Too good-natured to refuse, they accepted with wreathed smiles and, when they were once more alone, reviled their exalted host in terms which I dare not set down. That Elsie’s education had never before included the inspection of Christmas Trees did something to leaven the lump.

The afternoon came. Whimpering with pleasure, the vicar received his guests. Elsie Baumer, entirely collected, was shown the tree.

She had, of course, been told to say how lovely it was. Every precaution had been taken, for Elsie was a critic who was not afraid of speech.

Gravely she surveyed the sapling, the last year’s tinsel, the candles as yet unlit. Then she addressed her mother.

“Daddy’s an angel, isn’t he?”

A startled Mrs. Baumer was understood to concur.

“Then perhaps he did some of that,” said Elsie radiantly.

The vicar was transported and related the conjecture for weeks, with tears in his eyes. So did the principals—when they were once more alone.

Then Elsie was introduced to other girls of her age. These were present with their mothers. The principals and the mothers were then encouraged to mix.

It was Elsie’s first experience of meeting girls of her age who did not work for their living or that of somebody else. She perceived herself to be their superior in every way. She was treated as their inferior all the time. These things inclined her to laugh—so many pots were calling the cream-jug black. Instead, she listened and watched, determined to discover the reason for a complacency which was as fantastic as it was universal. Before it was time to be gone, the secret was hers. She was not as other girls were, because she belonged to the stage.

From that time on, Miss Baumer had one idea. This was to sever her connection with the world to which she belonged. ‘If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.’

No opportunity offered for three long years, but Elsie knew what she wanted and knew how to wait. She was, of course, a most exceptional girl. She employed her time in preparing for her escape. She learned how to get something for nothing—a trick which had nothing to do with sleight of hand, and she took to absenting herself, for days at a time. On the first occasion or two hue and cry was raised: very soon, however, her mother and other well-wishers gave up making fools of themselves: at the end of two years she came and went as she pleased.

Then she met a dull girl, a Miss Howard, whom nobody liked, who had no idea at all how to wear her expensive clothes. The encounter took place at Reading, in the waiting-room of a dentist whom Elsie had proposed to blackmail: but five minutes’ study of Miss Howard convinced the huntress that here was far bigger game. She let her appointment go and took her new friend to tea.

I imagine that Elsie’s instinct told her that here at last was the tide which she had been waiting to take. Be that as it may, she played her game throughout as though she knew what cards were going to be dealt.

Rowena Howard was an orphan, aged seventeen, doomed to be ‘finished’ in Paris in six weeks’ time. At the moment she was staying with sisters who accepted, during the holidays, homeless girls. The establishment bore a good name, but was, unknown to its patrons, passing through a difficult time, for the sister who did not drink was seriously ill.

All this Miss Baumer learned before tea had been served. It was over the scones that she was made free of the nightmare of which Miss Howard was now the unhappy prey. She dreaded Paris, of course. That was for her The Black Death. But a more immediate peril was haunting her waking hours. In eight days’ time she was to travel to London and travel alone—there to encounter her guardian, whom she had never seen.

Elsie there and then determined to go in her stead. And so she did.

The guardian, a City solicitor, found his ward a highly promising girl. He gave her lunch at Scott’s, had her photographed for her passport and gave her information for which Rowena Howard would never have asked. Under his supervision, she opened a banking account.

When she returned to Reading, she told a twittering Rowena what she thought she might conveniently believe. Miss Howard was consumed with gratitude. The already luxuriant friendship burst into riotous bloom. Elsie watered it with devotion. For the next five weeks her victim hung on her lips. It was too easy.

When the time came to leave for Paris, Miss Baumer accompanied Miss Howard—to do what she could. The two left Folkestone together, one sad, September night ...

The wind was fresh to strong, and Miss Howard, true to type, had begun to feel sick in the train. Before the lights of England had faded, she cared no longer whether she lived or died. This was as well, for, attached to Miss Baumer’s suitcase, she sank like a stone.

According to plan, a Miss Rowena Howard was met at the Gare du Nord. Of Miss Baumer nothing was said and nothing was ever known. Her mother made belated inquiries which naturally bore no fruit.

From the foregoing facts two conclusions may fairly be drawn. The first of them is that, when Lord Elvin said ‘She’s as deep as Hell’; that estimation, if blunt, was undoubtedly good. The second is that Mrs. David Bohun was a lady who knew not God nor respected man. Nothing counted with her but her own desires. Nothing. Her outlook was that of the Pharaohs. Could she have done so, she would have crushed a people—if that would have saved her the trouble of stooping to pick a flower. She remembered her benefactress with a hatred which never died. It was wholly thanks to her that she had for ever to add two years to her age.

When Miss Howard met David Bohun, again she knew in a flash that here was what she required. As once before, something within her—the furtive nudge of Instinct told her that here was the man.

In seven years she had developed, but she had not altered at all. She had increased in wisdom and in favour with man. She had studied most carefully the spirit and manners of the world which she now adorned, and she had at length perceived that a generous, faithful husband is a rock upon which one can build. (The verb is significant. Build. Not lean, or rest, or rely. Build. Rowena believed in construction.)

Of her fellows, all knew what they wanted. If you had asked them, they would have said, “A good time.” So would have Rowena—if she had told you the truth. The difference was this—that Rowena could have defined that loose, if convenient, phrase. She was no fool. When you are seeking something, your chances of finding it are greater if you know in your heart what it is.

Where men were concerned, she watched other women striving and learned of them: she saw them rising and falling, fooling and being fooled: she saw the rich become noble, the poor become rich: she saw the limitations of money: she saw marriage fail and succeed ... She could, of course, have defined the word ‘success’.

Four times she served as a bridesmaid—at weddings worth going to: no mean achievement, that, for a homeless girl. She augmented a slender income by odd secretarial work. Most of this was done for a Mrs. le Bras, a rich, persevering woman who believed in house-parties and devoted more hard labour to their composition than her regular secretary could perform. The work was highly instructive. Rowena began to learn where Mrs. le Bras left off.

And then, at twenty-four, she met David Bohun.

She found him straightforward and simple—two valuable faults: she found him hard-working and generous—a useful contradiction in terms: the briefest acquaintance proved him as clean within as without. She learned that his private income approached a thousand a year, that he was making twice that at the Chancery Bar, that his parents were dead, that he had a small house of his own. When she learned that the house stood in Curzon Street, Mayfair, Rowena could hardly wait for its lord to propose. Talk about rocks ...

They were married at the end of the vacation, postponed their honeymoon till Easter and settled down at once for the Hilary Term.

At the time of his marriage, Bohun was twenty-nine and as strong as a horse. By no means brilliant, he, nevertheless, had a flair for equity—that intricate dry-as-dust branch of the English law. His work was good. Slow to pounce, when once he had hold of a point, he would never let go. He did his cases as a mathematician does sums, unravelling with infinite patience knots which the careless had tied before his father was born. He could not have cross-examined to save his life, but the settlements he drew were unassailable. He would never make law: but no man would better apply the law which others had made. Thanks to Lord Elvin’s perception, he had entered the chambers of a leader who had in his youth displayed the same limited competency and, as a result, was now making ten thousand a year. As was to be expected, the two agreed together, and such as instructed Mr. Beaver began to give junior briefs to Mr. Bohun ...

Brown, dog-like eyes distinguished his pleasant face, and, for all his work within doors, his colour was high. No one would have thought him a lawyer: he had more the frank look of a sailor than anything else. He was tall and well set-up, cared for his hair and his hands and always wore well-cut clothes. So much for his appearance. His nature has already been declared. It should be added that he was a practical man, that he danced atrociously, but handled a car very well. He made the best of London, but gloried in unspoilt country of every kind. The greatest mistake he made was to take life seriously. The greatest weakness he had was that he was an idealist.

Those David Bohun liked he set up upon pedestals: and when they fell down, as sooner or later, of course, they always did, it was he that was chipped or broken because of their fall. For his wife he had no pedestal, but a niche. It had been waiting for years. Rowena fitted it—ideally.

The lady’s appearance is very hard to describe. Her features were unattractive. Her nose was poor, her mouth was too wide, her dark-brown eyes were too close: yet a most charming expression much more than redeemed these faults and clothed her face with a beauty which nobody could deny. This expression was most of all naïve. Summa ars celare artem. Rowena had achieved artlessness. Here was no baby stare, but the playful, friendly look of a creature that knows no wrong. Lord Elvin had spoken in haste of her ‘angel face’. Still, for such a description there is a great deal to be said. When Rowena was hurt, Rowena a saint could seem. Her wistful, far-away aspect remembered the glorious promise of more than one of The Beatitudes. Her size supported the illusion. She was ‘a little thing’. For the rest, her hair was fair, her hands were passable, and her figure was nearly perfect in every way. Rowena was beautifully made. Add to this that she knew how to choose and to put her clothes on, and it will be immediately clear that the lady appealed to the eye wherever she went.

As was fitting, her husband was proud of his wife. Had Rowena been asked, she would have confessed that she was most proud of Bohun. This would have been untrue. She was neither proud nor ashamed. Her husband suited her book.

Before they had been married a week, Rowena had shown him gently how selfish and thoughtless he was, and he had cursed himself and had sworn before God, who made her, that he would correct these faults.

The credit must go to the lady. With everyone else, her husband was strong of heart.

“What will it come to?” said Rowena.

“About thirty-five thousand,” said David, and switched on his lights.

“You each get the same?”

“That’s right. But, though it’s left to Forsyth, it isn’t his. It’s only been given to him to hold for somebody else.”

“Presumably you,” said Rowena.

“Us,” said David. “Or you. I hope that it’s you. You know that he fell for you flat. It was after seeing you that he altered his Will.”

Rowena raised her eyebrows.

“Possibly us,” she said. “He certainly seemed to like me. Most people do—except you.”

“Rowena!”

“You like yourself better, David.”

“My sweet, you know I don’t mean it. I’ve got into certain ways, through living alone. I’ve had nobody else to think of. And now sometimes, without thinking, I do as I’ve always done.”

“ ‘Without thinking’ is good,” said Rowena. “Are the Cadnams a case in point?”

Her husband put a hand to his head.

“My darling, I’ve told you——”

“God knows you have,” said Rowena. “I know the recital by heart. The Cadnams are the best in the world. They’re sober and honest and faithful and quite devoted to me. We shall never get anyone like them. You don’t want to see me worried—a pretty thought. But you always omit the truth that you do not want them to go.”

They drove for a mile in silence.

As working butler and cook, the Cadnams had been with Bohun for nearly three years. They were quiet, old-fashioned servants, who did their duty and took a pride in their work. Mrs. Cadnam was an excellent cook, and her husband had learned to clean silver when he had been a page. David was right when he said that Rowena and he would not get such servants again. And Rowena was right when she said that he did not want them to go.

To send them away seemed so wanton: and not only wanton—unkind. The Cadnams worshipped Rowena and served him and her so well. They were so good at their jobs and so happy in all they did. They were content and settled, gave every satisfaction, glowed with goodwill. It was certainly true that Cadnam’s handwriting was poor: when he wrote down a telephone-message, his spelling was full of faults. But you couldn’t make a case out of that ...

Rowena could—and did. And she said that the man was too old—at fifty-two. She declared that his sight was failing—because he used pince-nez when consulting the telephone-book. She said that his wife didn’t know how to send up a dish. She said ...

“It’s a question, David, of pleasing yourself or me. You can dress it up as you like; but that’s the truth, and you know it—and so do I.”

“All right,” said Bohun, at last. “Will you give them their notice? Or shall I?”

Rowena yawned.

“Well, you engaged them,” she said.

“I don’t know how to tell them,” said David, miserably.

When, fifty minutes later, a beaming Cadnam received his master and mistress as though they were king and queen, David Bohun knew he had sold his soul.

That night he summoned the butler and told him haltingly that he felt he must make a change. Cadnam, all unsuspecting, misunderstood what he meant. He thought Bohun was referring to the housemaid lately engaged and very respectfully ventured to plead her cause. He thought, if he might say so, the girl meant well. Mrs. Cadnam was watching her closely ... It was an awful business. Bohun had to tell him right out. All his life he never forgot how the dawn of understanding had crept into Cadnam’s eyes.

The next day, when David was out, Rowena saw Mrs. Cadnam and told her how grieved she was. She said that she had pleaded with David to let them stay, but that he had insisted that Cadnam got on his nerves. She promised—and kept her word—to get them a first-class place ... and wrote to a footman in the service of Mrs. le Bras. The man was awaiting the summons, which was not signed, and gave his mistress notice the following day.

Though his wife was a knave, I hold no brief for Bohun. The man was a fool. The thing was this—he had fallen in love with Miss Howard: he stayed in love with his wife. ‘For better or for worse’. The words were cut in the marble beneath her niche. I doubt if he realized this: but Rowena did—and traded upon her knowledge for all she was worth. She was not invariably brutal, but did as she felt inclined. She had only to toss him a smile, to bring the light into his eyes. It must be remembered that his faith in the girl was sublime. Bohun trusted his wife as he trusted himself. He would not have believed her false though one rose from the dead.

Because of Lord Elvin’s death, the Bohuns attended no parties until a fortnight was past. David had suggested this course, and to his relief Rowena had quietly agreed. ‘Night work’ hit Bohun hard. He was in Chambers each day by a quarter to ten and held himself lucky if he could be home before six. Strong as he was, to dine and dance four times a week, severely taxed the resources his work had left. Had he had but the fitful practice of most of his peers, such a subscription to gaiety would have cost nothing at all: but, as has been pointed out, between Beaver’s work and his own, Bohun had very nearly as much as a man can do. Then, again, at a party David Bohun had nothing at all of his wife. They came and went together: but that was all. Weary or no, he could have danced all night with her in his arms; but to revel with comparative strangers, most of whom did no work which deserved that name, few of whom would rise the next morning before ten o’clock, only insisted on the virtue of a good night’s rest. Still, his wife had to be considered—David saw as much for himself and did not oblige the lady to point it out. And Rowena gloried in parties—a natural exultation which her husband had not foreseen. To be perfectly honest, foresight was not his strong point.

Bohun had not hoped, but expected that his wife would breakfast with him at half past eight: that she would receive him with pleasure at six o’clock: that they would dine together and sometimes go to the play, but more often sit by the fire, each sufficient unto the other, letting the world slip. Of his marriage he had expected a new heaven and a new earth. He was not wholly disappointed. He got the new earth. But it was not the earth he had expected.

Parties, then, were a burden—as far as the man was concerned: dinner for two misfired: it was dinner for four that brought David his happiest hours. The explanation is simple. Dinner for four meant a quiet, comfortable evening, passed in a private house with familiar friends: he saw almost as much of Rowena as if they had been alone: and Rowena was as charming to him as she was to everyone else. When others were present—even Cadnam—Rowena never dissembled her love and respect for the man who had made her his wife.

Though the Bohuns did not go out, because of Lord Elvin’s death, dinners for four were given in Curzon Street. The Leightons came more than once—to Bohun’s delight.

Punch and Belinda Leighton were David’s most intimate friends. He had met Punch Leighton at Oxford, and, during the years which followed, acquaintance had grown into one of those grateful friendships which are the salt of life. Leighton’s marriage three years ago had actually strengthened the bond: Belinda and Bohun took to each other at once: as both of the men had hoped, the two became three. Now, though that phase was over, Rowena liked and was liked. The pairs agreed together admirably.

With no money to spare, the Leightons lived in Chelsea and paid their way. Their flat was small, but well found: such as they had and offered was of the best: the two dressed well. Always ready to share a taxi—and pay their share, when they were alone they would travel by ’bus or tube: they never cadged, but gave as good as they got: in a light purse they saw no shame—unless it inconvenienced their friends.

When the girls had left the table, the cronies, Bohun and Leighton, sat over some hunting port, and Leighton commended Rowena with all his might.

“Belinda’s crazy about her ... those big, brown eyes. She should have been called Madonna—I don’t know what her parents were thinking about. I mean, it’s so obvious. And you went and gathered her in ... Never mind. How’s the Chancery Bar?”

“I can’t complain,” said David. “How’s Mincing Lane?”

“Foul as foul,” said the other. “There’s no other word. But we do our best, D.B. We chug along knee-deep, and we’re not broke yet. Oh, and what about these?” He produced some superb cigars. “A hundred, D.B.—one hundred, complete with box. A present from a client, my son, who very wisely rejected my best advice. You don’t get thank-offerings like that in Lincoln’s Inn.”

“I wish we did,” said David, helping himself.

Here Cadnam came in with the coffee. As he withdrew—

“What a servant,” said Punch. “Remembers my weakness for sugar and actually leaves me the bowl.”

Bohun frowned.

“He, er, has his faults,” he said. “We’re making a change.”

“Go on,” said Leighton, staring. “Why——”

“He’s been here too long,” said his host. “He’s all right on parade, of course: but we—I thought it better ... And Rowena agreed.”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Punch. “If I can’t have my Cadnam, I shan’t come here any more. Why, you’ve told me a hundred times——”

“I know,” said Bohun, “I know.” He emptied his glass. “But these things happen, Punch, and it’s best he should go.”

Leighton shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s your funeral, D.B.—not mine. And I have a dreadful feeling that you know best. But what a soul-shaking thought. I never suspected that Cadnam had feet of clay.”

Bohun writhed in spirit and made a considerable business of pinching his big cigar ...

Upstairs Rowena was saying her little piece.

“I can’t discuss it, Belinda: but David thinks it’s best and he’s always right. It was rather hard to tell them, but I hope and believe I’ve got them a jolly good place. Meanwhile I’m doing my best to find somebody else. And now tell me about that dress. If only I’d hair like yours ...”

As the Leightons went home that night—

“D.B.’s fired the Cadnams,” said Punch.

“I know,” said Belinda, slowly. “Rowena’s too loyal to say so, but I can see she’s upset.”

“Poor child,” said her husband, frowning.

“And now she’s got to get down to finding a cook and a butler to take their place.”

“She’ll never do that,” said Punch, “in a year of Saturday nights.”

There he was out.

Within one month the two places were duly filled.

The new butler was an Eurasian, whose name was Anselm, whose manner was very reserved. The service he gave was undeniably good, but at times his Chinese blood was disconcertingly apparent. Infinitely correct, he never smiled: and he moved so silently that often you could not be sure whether he was or was not within the room. David found him inhuman, but Rowena’s manifest rapture silenced the protests which he would have liked to make. Besides, within twenty-four hours, the man had produced to Rowena a truly excellent cook: and when later the housemaid left, as of course she did—“you don’t get me muckin’ in with one o’ them Chinks”—the cause of her displeasure replaced her within the week.

With his coming, a change took place. The fact that the butler was present no longer prevented his mistress from dissembling her conjugal love. If she wished to rebuke his master, she did not wait until Anselm was out of the room.