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"My husband thinks you're such a good companion for Harry," she added, showing that her pleasure was genuine, even if somewhat interested.
"Yes, Hayes," said Mr. Belfield. "See all you can of him; we shall be grateful. He wants just what a steady-going sensible fellow, as everybody says you are, can give him – a bit of ballast, eh?"
"Everybody" had been, in fact, Jack Rock, but – again for obvious reasons – the authority was not cited by name.
"You may be sure I shall give him as much of my company as he'll take, sir," said Andy, infinitely pleased, enormously complimented.
Placidity was Mrs. Belfield's dominant note – a soothing placidity. She was rather short and rather plump – by no means an imposing figure; but this quality gave her a certain dignity, and even a certain power in her little world. People let her have her own way because she was so placidly sure that they would, and it seemed almost profane to disturb the placidity. Even her husband's humour was careful to stop short of that. Her physical movements were in harmony with her temper – leisurely, smooth, noiseless; her voice was gentle, low, and even. She seemed to Andy to fit in well with the life she lived and always had lived, to be a good expression or embodiment of its sheltered luxury and sequestered tranquillity. Storms and stress and struggles – these things had nothing to do with Mrs. Belfield, and really ought to have none; they would be quite out of keeping with her. She seemed to have a right to ask that things about her should go straight and go quietly. There was perhaps a flavour of selfishness about this disposition; certainly an inaccessibility to strong feeling. For instance, while placidly assuming Harry's success and Harry's career, she was not excited nor what would be called enthusiastic about them – not half so excited and enthusiastic as Andy Hayes.
The dinner in the fine old room, under the Vandykes, with Mrs. Belfield in her lavender silk and precious lace, the girls in their white frocks, the old silver, the wealth of flowers, seemed rather wonderful to Andy Hayes. His life in boyhood had been poor and meagre, in manhood hard and rough. Here was a side of existence he had not seen; as luxurious as the life of which he had caught a glimpse at the great restaurant, but far more serene, more dignified. His opening mind received another new impression and a rarely attractive one.
But the centre of the scene for him was Vivien Wellgood. From his first sight of her in the drawing-room he could not deny that. He had never seen her in the evening before, and it was in the evening that her frail beauty showed forth. She was like a thing of gossamer that a touch would spoil. She was so white in her low-cut frock; all so white save for a little glow on the cheeks that excitement and pleasure brought, save for the brightness of her hair in the soft candle light, save for the dark blue eyes which seemed to keep watch and ward over her hidden thoughts. Yes, she was – why, she was good enough for Harry – good enough for Harry Belfield himself! And he, Andy, Harry's faithful follower and worshipper, would worship her too, if she would let him (Harry, he knew, would), if she would not be afraid of him, not dislike him or shrink from him. That was all he asked, having in his mind not only a bashful consciousness of his rude strength and massive frame – they seemed almost threatening beside her delicacy – but also a haunting recollection that she could not endure such a number of things, including butchers' shops.
No thought for himself, no thought of trying to rival Harry, so much as crossed his mind. If it had, it would have been banished as rank treachery; but it could not, for the simple reason that his attitude towards Harry made such an idea utterly foreign to his thoughts. He was not asking, as Isobel Vintry had asked that afternoon, why he might not have his chance. It was not the way of his nature to put forward claims for himself – and, above all, claims that conflicted with Harry's claims. The bare notion was to him impossible.
He sat by her, but for some time she gave herself wholly to listening to Harry, who had found, on getting home, a letter from Billy Foot, full of the latest political gossip from town. But presently, the conversation drifting into depths of politics where she could not follow, she turned to Andy and said, "I'm getting on much better with Curly. I pat him now!"
"That's right. It's only his fun."
"People's fun is sometimes the worst thing about them."
"Well now, that's true," Andy acknowledged, rather surprised to hear the remark from her.
"But I am getting on much better. And – well, rather better at riding." She smiled at him in confidence. "And nobody's said anything about swimming. Do you know, when I feel myself inclined to get frightened, I think about you!"
"Do you find it helps?" asked Andy, much amused and rather pleased.
"Yes, it's like thinking of a policeman in the middle of the night."
"I suppose I do look rather like a policeman," said Andy reflectively.
"Yes, you do! That's it, I think." The vague "it" seemed to signify the explanation of the confidence Andy inspired.
"And how about dust and dirt, and getting very hot?" he inquired.
"Isobel says I'm a bit better about courage, but not the least about fastidiousness."
"Fastidiousness suits some people, Miss Wellgood."
"It doesn't suit father, not in me," she murmured with a woeful smile.
"Doesn't thinking about me help you there? On the same principle it ought to."
"It doesn't," she murmured, with a trace of confusion, and suddenly her eyes went blank. Something was in her thoughts that she did not want Andy to see. Was it the butcher's shop? Andy's wits were not quick enough to ask the question; but he saw that her confidential mood had suffered a check.
Her confidence had been very pleasant, but there were other things to listen to at the table. Andy was heart-whole and intellectually voracious.
They, the rest of the company, had begun on politics – imperial politics – and had discussed them not without some friction. No Radical was present —Procul, O procul este, profani!– but Wellgood had the perversities of his anti-sentimental attitude. A Tory at home, why was he to be a democrat – or a Socialist – at the Antipodes? Competition and self-interest were the golden rule in England; was there to be another between England and her colonies? The tie of blood – one flag, one crown, one destiny – Wellgood suspected his bugbear in every one of these cries. Nothing for nothing – and for sixpence no more than the coin was worth – with a preference for five penn'orth if you could get out of it at that! He stood steady on his firmly-rooted narrow foundation.
All of Harry was on fire against him. Was blood nothing – race, colour, memories, associations, the Flag, the Crown, and the Destiny? A destiny to rule, or at least to manage, the planet! Mother and Daughters – nothing in that?
Things were getting hot, and the ladies, who always like to look on at the men fighting, much interested. Mr. Belfield, himself no politician, rather a student of human nature and addicted to the Socratic attitude (so justly vexatious to practical men who have to do something, good, bad, or if not better, at least more plausible, than nothing) interposed a suggestion.
"Mother and daughters? Hasn't husband and wives become a more appropriate parallel?" He smiled across the table at his own wife. "No personal reference, my dear! But an attitude of independence, without any particular desire to pay the bills? Oh, I'm only asking questions!"
Andy was listening hard now. So was Vivien, for she saw Harry's eyes alight and his mouth eager to utter truths that should save the nation.
"If we could reach," said Harry, marvellously handsome, somewhat rhetorical for a small party, "if only we could once reach a true understanding between ourselves and the self-governing – "
"Oh, but that's going beyond my parallel, my dear boy," his father interrupted. "If marriage demanded mutual understanding, what man or woman could risk it with eyes open?"
"Doesn't it?" Isobel Vintry was the questioner.
"Heavens, no, my dear Miss Vintry! Something much less, something much less fundamentally impossible. A good temper and a bad memory, that's all!"
"Well done, pater!" cried Harry, readily switched off from his heated enthusiasm. "Which for the husband, which for the wife?"
"Both for both, Harry. Toleration to-day, and an unlimited power of oblivion to-morrow."
"What nonsense you're talking, dear," placidly smiled Mrs. Belfield.
"I'm exactly defining your own characteristics," he replied. "If you do that to a woman, she always says you're talking nonsense."
"An unlimited supply of the water of Lethe, pater? That does it?"
"That's about it, Harry. If you mix it with a little sound Scotch whisky before you go to bed – "
Andy burst into a good guffaw; the kindly mocking humour pleased him. Vivien was alert too; there was nothing to frighten, much to enjoy; the glow deepened on her cheeks.
But Wellgood was not content; he was baulked of his argument, of his fight.
"We've wandered from the point," he said dourly. ("As if wanderings were not the best things in the world!" thought more than one of the party, more or less explicitly.) "We give, they take." He was back to the United Kingdom and the Colonies.
"Could anything be more nicely exact to my parallel?" asked Belfield, socratically smiling. "Did you ever know a marriage where each partner didn't say, 'I give, you take'? Some add that they're content with the arrangement, others don't."
"Pater, you always mix up different things," Harry protested, laughing.
"I'm always trying to find out whether there are any different things, Harry." He smiled at his son. "Wives, that's what they are! And several of them! Harry, we're in for all the difficulties of polygamy! A preference to one – oh no, I'm not spelling it with a big P! But – well, the ladies ought to be able to help us here. Could you share a heart, Miss Vintry?"
Isobel's white was relieved with gold trimmings; she looked sumptuous. "I shouldn't like it," she answered.
"What has all this got to do with the practical problem?" Wellgood demanded. "Our trade with the Colonies is no more than thirty per cent – "
"I agree with you, Mr. Wellgood. The gentlemen had much better have kept to their politics," Mrs. Belfield interposed with suave placidity. "They understand them. When they begin to talk about women – "
"Need of Lethe – whisky and Lethe-water!" chuckled Harry. "In a large glass, eh, Andy?"
Wellgood turned suddenly on Andy. "You've lived in Canada. What do you say?"
Andy had been far too much occupied in listening. Besides, he was no politician. He thought deeply for a moment.
"A lot depends on whether you want to buy or to sell." He delivered himself of this truth quite solemnly.
"A very far-reaching observation," said Mr. Belfield. "Goes to the root of human traffic, and, quite possibly, to that of both the institutions which we have been discussing. I wonder whether either will be permanent!"
"Look here, pater, we're at dessert! Aren't you starting rather big subjects?"
"Your father likes to amuse himself with curious ideas," Mrs. Belfield remarked. "So did my father; he once asked me what I thought would happen if I didn't say my prayers. Men like to ask questions like that, but I never pay much attention to them. Shall we go into the drawing-room, Vivien? It may be warm enough for a turn in the garden, perhaps." She addressed the men. "Bring your cigars and try."
The men were left alone. "The garden would be jolly," said Harry.
Mr. Belfield coughed, and suddenly wheezed. "Intimations of mortality!" he said apologetically. "We've talked of a variety of subjects – to little purpose, I suppose. But it's entertaining to survey the field of humanity. Your views were briefly expressed, Hayes."
"Everybody else was talking such a lot, sir," said Andy.
Belfield's humorous laugh was entangled in a cough. "You'll never get that obstacle out of the way of your oratory," he managed to stutter out. "They always are! Talk rules the world – eh, Wellgood?" He was maliciously provocative.
"We wait till they've finished talking. Then we do what we want," said Wellgood. "Force rules in the end – the readiness to kill and be killed. That's the ultima ratio, the final argument."
"The women say that's out of date."
"The women!" exclaimed Wellgood contemptuously.
"They'll be in the garden," Harry opined. "Shall we move, pater?"
"We might as well," said Belfield. "Are you ready, Wellgood?"
Wellgood was ready – in spite of his contempt.
Chapter VI
THE WORLDS OF MERITON
The garden at Halton was a pleasant place on a fine evening, with a moon waxing, yet not obtrusively full, with billowing shrubberies, clear-cut walks, lawns spreading in a gentle drabness that would be bright green in to-morrow's sun – a place pleasant in its calm, its spaciousness and isolation. They all sat together in a ring for a while; smoke curled up; a servant brought glasses that clinked as they were set down with a cheery, yet not urgent, suggestion.
"I suppose you're right to go in for it," said Wellgood to Harry. "It's your obvious line." (He was referring to a public career.) "But, after all, it's casting pearls before swine."
"Swine!" The note of exclamation was large. "Our masters, Mr. Wellgood!"
"A decent allowance of bran, and a ring through their noses – that's the thing for them!"
"Has anybody got a copy – well, another copy of 'Coriolanus'?" Harry inquired in an affectation of eagerness.
"Casting pearls before swine is bad business, of course," said Belfield in his husky voice – he was really unwise to be out of doors at all; "but there are degrees of badness. If your pearls are indifferent as pearls, and your swine admirable as swine? And that's often the truth of it."
"My husband is sometimes perverse in his talk, my dear," said Mrs. Belfield, aside to Vivien, to whom she was being very kind. "You needn't notice what he says."
"He's rather amusing," Vivien ventured, not quite sure whether the adjective were respectful enough.
"Andy, pronounce!" cried Harry Belfield; for his friend sat in his usual meditative absorbing silence.
"If I had to, I'd like to say a word from the point of view of the – swine." Had the moon been stronger, he might have been seen to blush. "I don't want to be – oh, well, serious. That's rot, I know – after dinner. But – well, you're all in it – insiders – I'm an outsider. And I say that what the swine want is – pearls!"
"If we've got them?" The question, or insinuation, was Belfield's. He was looking at Andy with a real, if an only half-serious, interest.
"Swine are swine," remarked Wellgood. "They mustn't forget it. Neither must we."
"But pearls by no means always pearls?" Belfield suggested. "Though they may look the real thing if a pretty woman hangs them round her neck."
Their talk went only for an embellishment of their general state – so comfortable, so serene, so exceptionally fortunate. Were not they pearls? Andy had seen something of the swine, had perhaps even been one of them. A vague protest stirred in him; were they not too serene, too comfortable, too fortunate? Yet he loved it all; it was beautiful. How many uglies go to make one beautiful? It is a bit of social arithmetic. When you have got the result, the deduction may well seem difficult.
"It doesn't much matter whether they're real or not, if a really pretty woman hangs them round her neck," Harry laughed. "The neck carries the pearls!"
"But we'd all rather they were real," said Isobel Vintry suddenly, the first of the women to intervene. "Other women guess, you see."
"Does it hurt so much if they do?" Belfield asked.
"The only thing that really does hurt," Isobel assured him, smiling.
"Oh, my dear, how disproportionate!" sighed Mrs. Belfield.
"I'd never have anything false about me – pearls, or lace, or hair, or – or anything about me," exclaimed Vivien. "I should hate it!" Feeling carried her into sudden unexpected speech.
Very gradually, very tentatively, Andy was finding himself able to speak in this sort of company, to speak as an equal to equals, not socially only, but in an intellectual regard.
"Riches seem to me all wrong, but what they produce, leaving out the wasters, all right." He let it out, apprehensive of a censuring silence. Belfield relieved him in a minute.
"I'm with you. I always admire most the things to which I'm on principle opposed – a melancholy state of one's mental interior! Kings, lords, and bishops – crowns, coronets, and aprons – all very attractive and picturesque!"
"We all know that the governor's a crypto-Radical," said Harry.
"I thought Carlyle, among others, had taught that we were all Radicals when in our pyjamas – or less," said Belfield. "But that's not the point. The excellence of things that are wrong, the narrowness of the moral view!"
"My dear! Oh, well, my dear!" murmured Mrs. Belfield.
"I've got a touch of asthma – I must say what I like." Belfield humorously traded on his infirmity. "A dishonest fellow who won't pay his tradesmen, a flirtatious minx who will make mischief, a spoilt urchin who insists on doing what he shouldn't – all rather attractive, aren't they? If everybody behaved properly we should have no 'situations.' What would become of literature and the drama?"
"And if nobody had any spare cash, what would become of them, either?" asked Harry.
"Well, we could do with a good deal less of them. I'll go so far as to admit that," said Wellgood.
Belfield laughed. "Even from Wellgood we've extracted one plea for the redistribution of wealth. A dialectical triumph! Let's leave it at that."
Mrs. Belfield carried her husband off indoors; Wellgood went with them, challenging his host to a game of bezique; Harry invited Vivien to a stroll; Isobel Vintry and Andy were left together. She asked him a sudden question:
"Do you think Harry Belfield a selfish man?"
"Selfish! Harry? Heavens, no! He'd do anything for his friends."
