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Dodo: A Detail of the Day

<h4>CHAPTER TEN</h4> That same evening Edith Staines and Miss Grantham were seated together in a box at the opera. The first act was just over, and Edith, who had mercilessly silenced every remark Miss Grantham had made during it, relaxed a little. Miss Grantham's method of looking at an opera was to sit with her hack to the stage, so as to command a better view of the house, and talk continuously. But Edith would not stand that. She had before her a large quarto containing the full score, and she had a pencil in her hand with which she entered little corrections, and now and then she made comments to herself. "I shall tell Mancinelli of that," she murmured. "The whole point of the motif is that rapid run with the minim at the end, and he actually allowed that beast to make a rallentando." But the act was over now, and she shut the book with a bang. "Come outside, Grantie," she said, "it's so fearfully hot. I had to hurry over dinner in order to get here in time. The overture is one of the best parts. It isn't like so many overtures that give you a sort of abstract of the opera, but it hints at it all, and leaves you to think it out." "Oh, I didn't hear the overture," said Miss Grantham. "I only got here at Mephistopheles' appearance. I think Edouard is such a dear. He really looks a very attractive devil. I suppose it's not exactly the beauty of holiness, but extremes meet, you know." "I must open the door," said Edith. "I want to sit in a draught." "There's Mr. Broxton," remarked Miss Grantham. "I think he sees us. I hope he'll come up. I think it's simply charming, to see how devoted he still is to Dodo. I think he is what they call faithful." "I think it's scandalous," said Edith hotly. "He's got no business to hang about like that. It's very weak of him—I despise weak people. It's no use being anything, unless you're strong as well; it's as bad as being second-rate. You may be of good quality, but if you're watered down, it's as bad as being inferior." Jack meantime had made his way up to the box. "We've just been saying all sorts of nice things about you," remarked Miss Grantham sweetly. "Have you seen Dodo to-day?" "Haven't you heard?" asked Jack. Edith frowned. "No; what?" she asked. "Their baby died this morning," he said. Edith's score fell to the ground with a crash. "Good heavens! is it true?" she asked. "Who told you?" "I was riding with Dodo this morning," said he, "and Mrs. Vivian met Dodo and told her. I knew something had happened, so I went to inquire. No one has seen either of them again." "Did you try and see her?" said Edith severely. "Yes, I went this evening." "Ah!" Edith frowned again. "How does he take it?" she asked. "I don't know," he said; "no one has seen them since." Edith picked up her score. "Good-night, Grantie," she said. "Good-night, Mr. Broxton. I must go." Miss Grantham looked up in astonishment. Edith was folding her opera cloak round her. Jack offered to help her. "Thanks, I can do it," she said brusquely. "What are you going for?" asked Miss Grantham, in surprise. "It's all right," said Edith. "I've got to see someone. I shall come back, probably." The door closed behind her. "Of course it's awfully sad," remarked Miss Grantham, "but I don't see why Edith should go like that. I wonder where she's gone. Don't you adore the opera, Mr. Broxton? I think it's simply lovely. It's so awfully sad about Marguerite, isn't it? I wish life was really like this. It would be so nice to sing a song whenever anything important happened. It would smooth things so. Oh, yes, this is the second act, isn't it? It's where Mephisto sings that song to the village people. It always makes me feel creepy. Poor Dodo!" "I am more sorry for him," said Jack; "you know he was simply wrapped up in the baby." "Dodo certainly finds consolation quickly," said Miss Grantham. "I think she's sensible. It really is no use crying over spilt milk. I suppose she won't go out again this season. Dear me, it's Lady Bretton's ball the week after next, in honour of Lucas's coming of age. Dodo was to have led the cotillion with Lord Ledgers. That was a good note. Isn't the scene charming?" "I don't know what Dodo will do," said Jack. "I believe they will leave London, only—only—" Miss Grantham looked at him inquiringly. "You see Dodo has to be amused," said Jack. "I don't know what she would do, if she was to have to shut herself up again. She was frightfully bored after the baby's birth." Miss Grantham was casting a roving London eye over the occupants of the stalls. "There's that little Mr. Spencer, the clergyman at Kensington," she said. "I wonder how his conscience lets him come to see anything so immoral. Isn't that Maud next him? Dear me, how interesting. Bring them up here after the act, Mr. Broxton. I suppose Maud hasn't heard?" "I think she's been with her father somewhere in Lancashire," said Jack. "She can only have come back to-day. There is Mrs. Vane, too. Dodo can't have telegraphed to them." "Oh, that's so like Dodo," murmured Miss Grantham; "it probably never occurred to her. Dear me, this act is over. I am afraid we must have missed the 'Virgo.' What a pity. Do go, and ask them all to come up here." "So charmed,", murmured Mrs. Vane, as she rustled into the box. "Isn't it a lovely night? Dear Prince Waldenech met me in the hall, and he asked so affectionately after Dodo. Charming, wasn't it? Yes. And do you know Mr. Spencer, dear Miss Grantham? Shall we tell Miss Grantham and Mr. Broxton our little secret, Maud? Cupid has been busy here," she whispered, with a rich elaborateness to Miss Grantham. "Isn't it charming? We are delighted. Yes, Mr. Spencer, Miss Grantham and Mr. Broxton, of course—Mr. Spencer." Mr. Spencer bowed and smiled, and conducted himself as he should. He was a fashionable rector in a rich parish, who had long felt that the rich deserved as much looking after as the poor, and had been struck with Maud's zeal for the latter, and thought it would fit in very well with his zeal for the former, had won Maud's heart, and now appeared as the happy accepted lover. Mrs. Vane was anxious to behave in the way it was expected that she should, and, finding that Miss Grantham sat with her back to the stage and talked, took up a corresponding attitude herself. Miss Grantham quickly decided that she did not know about the death of Dodo's baby, and determined not to tell her. In the first place, it was to be supposed that she did not know either, and in the second, she was amused by the present company, and knew that to mention it was to break up the party. Mr. Spencer had a little copy of the words, with the English on one side and the Italian on the other. When he came to a passage that he thought indelicate, he turned his attention to the Italian. Maud sat between him and Miss Grantham. "I am so delighted, Maud," Miss Grantham was saying, "and I am sure Dodo will be charmed. She doesn't know yet, I suppose? When is it to be?" "Oh, I don't quite know," said Maud confusedly. "Algy, that is Mr. Spencer, is going to leave London, you know, and take a living at Gloucester. I shall like that. There is a good deal of poverty at Gloucester." Miss Grantham smiled sympathetically. "How sweet of you," she said; "and you will go and work among the poor, and give them soup and prayer-books, won't you? I should love to do that. Mrs. Vivian will tell you all about those things, I suppose?" "Oh, she took me to an awful slum before we left London," said Maud, in a sort of rapture—"you know we have been away at Manchester for a week with my father—and I gave them some things I had worked. I am doing a pair of socks for Dodo's baby." Miss Grantham turned her attention to the stage. "The Jewel song is perfectly lovely," she remarked. "I wish Edith was here. Don't you think that girl sings beautifully? I wonder who she is." At that moment the door of the box opened, and Edith entered. She grasped the situation at once, and felt furiously angry with Miss Grantham and Jack. She determined to put a stop to it. "Dear Mrs. Vane, you can't have heard. I only knew this evening, and I suppose Mrs. Vivian's note has missed you somehow. I have just left her, and she told me she had written to you. You know Dodo's baby has been very ill, quite suddenly, and this morning—yes, yes—" Mrs. Vane started up distractedly. "Oh, my poor Dodo," she cried, "I never knew! And here I am enjoying myself, when she—Maud, did you hear? Dodo's baby—only this morning. My poor Dodo!" She began crying in a helpless sort of way. Maud turned round with a face full of horror. "How awful! Poor Dodo! Come, mother, we must go." Mr. Spencer dropped his English and Italian version. "Let me see you to your carriage," he said. "Let me give you an arm, Mrs. Vane." Maud turned to Jack, and for once showed some of Dodo's spirit. "Mr. Broxton," she said, "I have an idea you knew. Perhaps I am wrong. If I am, I beg your pardon; if not, I consider you have behaved in a way I didn't expect of you, being a friend of Dodo's. I think—" she broke off, and followed the others. Jack felt horribly uncomfortable. He and Edith and Miss Grantham stood in silence for a moment. "It was horrible of you, Grantie," said Edith, "to let them sit here, and tell them nothing about it." "My dear Edith, I could do nothing else," said Miss Grantham, in an even, calm voice. "There would have been a scene, and I can't bear scenes. There has been a scene as it is, but you are responsible for that. You are rather jumpy to-night. Where have you been?" "I have been to see Mrs. Vivian," said Edith. "I wanted to know about this. I told her I was coming back here, and she gave me this for you, Mr. Broxton." She handed him a note. Then she picked up her big score, and sat down again with her pencil. The note contained only two lines, requesting Mr. Broxton to come and see her in the morning. Jack read it and tore it up. He felt undecided how to act. Edith was buried in her score, and gave no sign. Miss Grantham had resumed her place, and was gazing languidly, at the box opposite. He picked up his hat, and turned to leave. Edith looked up from her score. "I think I ought to tell you," she said, "that Mrs. Vivian and I talked about you, and that note is the result. I don't care a pin what you think." Jack opened his eyes in astonishment. Edith had always struck him as being rather queer; and this statement seemed to him very queer indeed. Her manner was not conciliatory. He bowed. "I feel complimented by being the subject of your conversation," he replied with well-bred insolence, and closed the door behind him. Miss Grantham laughed. A scene like this pleased her; it struck her as pure comedy. "Really, Edith, you are very jumpy; I don't understand you a bit. You are unnecessarily rude. Why did you say you did not care a pin what he thought?" "You won't understand, Grantie," said Edith. "Don't you see how dangerous it is all becoming? I don't care the least whether I am thought meddlesome. Jack Broxton is awfully in love with Dodo, anyone can see that, and Dodo evidently cares for him; and that poor, dear, honest fool Chesterford is completely blind to it all. It was bad enough before, but the baby's death makes it twice as bad. Dodo will want to be amused; she will hate this retirement, and she will expect Mr. Broxton to amuse her. Don't you see she is awfully bored with her husband, and she will decline to be entirely confined to his company. While she could let off steam by dancing and riding and so on, it was safe; she only met Mr. Broxton among fifty other people. But decency, even Dodo's, will forbid her to meet those fifty other people now. And each time she sees him, she will return to her husband more wearied than before. It is all too horrible. I don't suppose she is in love with Jack Broxton, but she finds him attractive, and he knows it, and he is acting disgracefully in letting himself see her so much. Everyone knows he went abroad to avoid her—everyone except Dodo, that is, and she must guess. I respected him for that, but now he is playing the traitor to Chesterford. And Mrs. Vivian quite agrees with me." "Oh, it's awfully interesting if you're right," said Miss Grantham reflectively; "but I think you exaggerate. Jack is not a cad. He doesn't mean any harm. Besides, he is a great friend of Chesterford's." "Well, he's got no business to play with fire," said Edith. "His sense of security only increases the real danger. If Chesterford knew exactly how matters stood it would be different, but he is so simple-hearted that he is only charmed to see Jack Broxton, and pleased that Dodo likes him." "Oh, it's awfully interesting," murmured Miss Grantham. "I could cry when I think of Chesterford," said Edith. "The whole thing is such a fearful tragedy. If only they can get over this time safely, it may all blow over. I wish Dodo could go out again to her balls and concerts. She finds such frantic interest in everything about her, that she doesn't think much of any particular person. But it is this period, when she is thrown entirely on two or three people, that is so dangerous. She really is a frightful problem. Chesterford was a bold or a blind man to marry her. Oh, I can't attend to this opera to-night. I shall go home. It's nearly over. Faust is singing hopelessly out of tune." She shut her book, and picked up her fan and gloves. "Dear Edith," said Miss Grantham languidly, "I think you mean very well, but you are rather over-drawing things. Are you really going? I think I shall come too." Jack meantime was finding his way home in a rebellious and unchristian frame of mind. In the first place, he had just lost his temper, which always seemed to him to be a most misdirected effort of energy; in the second place, he resented Edith's interference with all his heart and soul; and in the third, he did not feel so certain that she was wrong. Of course he guessed what Mrs. Vivian's wish to see him meant, for it had occurred to him very vividly what consequences the death of the baby would have on him and Dodo: and he anticipated another period like that which had followed the birth. Jack could hardly dare to trust himself to think of that time. He knew it had been very pleasant to him, and that he had enjoyed Dodo's undisturbed company during many days in succession, but it was with a certain tingling of the ears that he thought of the events of the morning, and his mad confession to her. "I have a genius for spoiling things," thought Jack to himself. "Everything was going right; I was seeing Dodo enough to keep me happy, and free from that hateful feeling of last autumn, and then I spoilt it all by a stupid remark that could do no good, nor help me in any conceivable way. How will Dodo have taken it?" But he was quite sure of one thing—he would not go and see Mrs. Vivian. He was, he felt, possessed of all the facts of the case, and he was competent to form a judgment on them—at any rate Mrs. Vivian was not competent to do it for him. No, he would give it another chance. He would again reason out the pros and cons of the case, he would be quite honest, and he would act accordingly. That he should arrive at the same conclusion was inevitable. The one thing in the world that no man can account for, or allow for, is change in himself. If Jack had been able to foresee, when he went abroad, that he would be acting thus with regard to Dodo, he would have thought himself mad, and it would have been as impossible for him to act thus then, as it was inevitable for him to act thus now. If we judge by our own standards, and our own standards alter, we cannot expect our verdicts to remain invariable. Under a strong attachment a man drifts, and he cannot at any one moment allow for, or feel the force of the current, for he is moving in it, though he thinks himself at rest. The horrible necessities of cause and effect work in us, as well as around us. As Edith had said, his sense of security was his danger, for his standard of security was not the same as it had been. He sat down and wrote a note to Mrs. Vivian, saying that he regretted being unable to call on her to-morrow, and purposely forebore to give any reason. He had considerable faith in her power of reading between the lines, and the fact, baldly stated, was an unnecessary affront to her intellect. Mrs. Vivian read the note with very little surprise, but with a good deal of regret. She was genuinely sorry for him, but she had other means at her disposal, though they were not so pleasant to use. They involved a certain raking up of old dust-heaps, and a certain awakening of disagreeable memories. But it never occurred to her to draw back. Naturally enough she went to see Dodo next morning, and found her alone. Mrs. Vivian had her lesson by heart, and she was only waiting for Dodo to tell her to begin, so to speak. Dodo hailed her with warmth; she had evidently found matters a little tedious. "Dear Vivy," she said, "I'm so glad you've come; and Chesterford told me to ask you to see him, before you went away, in case you called. So you will, won't you? But I must have you for a long time first." "How is he?" asked Mrs. Vivian. "Oh, he's quite well," said Dodo, "but he feels it frightfully. But he is fortunate, he has spiritual consolation as his aid. I haven't, not one atom. It's a great nuisance, I know, but I don't see how to help it. Can the Ethiopian change his skin?" "Ah, Dodo," said she, with earnestness in her tone, "you have a great opportunity—I don't think you realise how great." "Why, what do you mean?" said Dodo. "Of course I know what you feel," said Mrs. Vivian, "and it is necessary that with your grief there must be mixed up a great deal of vexation and annoyance. Isn't it so?" "Yes, yes," said Dodo. "You don't despise me for feeling that?" "Despise you!" said Mrs. Vivian. "You know me better than that. But you must not dwell on it. There is something more important than the cancelling of your smaller engagements. You have a big engagement, you know, which must not be cancelled." Dodo rose from her chair with wide eyes. "Ah, Vivy," she said, "you have guessed it, have you? It is quite true. Let me tell you all about it. It is just that which bothers me. These days when I only see Chesterford bore me more than I can say. I don't know why I tell you this; it isn't want of loyalty to him, but I want help. I don't know how to deal with him.. Yes, he bores me. I always foresaw this, but I hoped I shouldn't mind. I was wrong and Jack was right. He warned me of it, but he must never know he was right. Of course you see why. I think I did not expect that Chesterford's love for me would last. I thought he would cease being my lover, and I am terribly wrong. It gets stronger and stronger. He told me so last night, and I felt a brute. But I comforted him and deceived him again. Ah, what could I do? I don't love him. I would give anything to do so. I think I felt once what love was, but only once, and not for him." Mrs. Vivian looked up inquiringly. "No, I shan't tell you about that," said Dodo, speaking rapidly and excitedly; "it would be a sort of desecration. There is something divine about Chesterford's feeling for me. I know it, but it doesn't really touch me. I am not capable of it, and what happens is that I continue to amuse myself on my own lines, and all that goes over my head. But I make him believe I understand. It makes him happy. And I know, I know, that when I am out of this, I shall go on just as usual, except that I shall feel like a prisoner escaped, and revel in my liberty. I know I shall. Sometimes I almost determine to make some sacrifice for him in a blind sort of way, like a heathen sacrificing to what he fears, yes, fears, but then that mood passes and I go on as usual. I long to get away from him. Sometimes I am afraid of hating him, if I see him too much or too exclusively." "Yes, Dodo, I know, I know," said Mrs. Vivian. "I don't see how you are to learn it, unless it comes to you; but what you can do, is to act as if you felt it, not only in little tiny ways, like calling him an 'old darling,' but in living for him more." "Ah, those are only words," said Dodo impatiently. "I realise it all, but I can't do it." There was a long silence. Then Mrs. Vivian said,— "Dodo, I am going to tell you what I have never told anyone before, and that is the story of my marriage. I know the current version very well, that I married a brute who neglected me. That he neglected me is true, but that is not all. Like you, I married without love, without even liking. There were reasons for it, which I need not trouble you with. I used to see a good deal of a man with whom I was in love, when I married Mr. Vivian. He interested me and made my life more bearable. My husband grew jealous of him, almost directly after my marriage. I saw it, and, God forgive me, it amused me, and I let it go on—in fact, I encouraged it. That was my mistake, and I paid dearly for it. I believe he loved me at first; it was my fault that he did not continue to do so. Then my baby was born, and, a month afterwards, somehow or other we quarrelled, and he said things to me which no woman ever forgets. He said it was not his child. I never forgot it, and it is a very short time ago that I forgave it. For two years after his death, as you know, I travelled abroad, and I fought against it, and I believe, before God, that I have forgiven him. Then I came back to London. But after that day when he said those things to me, we grew further and further apart. I interested myself in other things, in the poor, and so on, and he took to drinking. That killed him. He was run over in the street, as he came back from somewhere where he had been dining. But he was run over because he was dead drunk at the time. When I was abroad I came under the influence of a certain Roman Catholic priest. He did not convert me, nor did he try to, but he helped me very much; and one day, I remember the day very well, I was almost in despair, because I could not forgive the wrong my dead husband had done me, somehow a change began in me. I can tell you no more than that a change comes, and it is there. It is the grace of God. There, Dodo, that is my history, and there is this you may learn from it, that you must be on your guard against making a mistake. You must never let Chesterford know how wide the gulf is between you. It will be a constant effort, I know, but it is all you can do. Set a watch on yourself; let your indifference be your safeguard, your warning." Mrs. Vivian stood up. Her eyes were full of tears, and she laid her hands on Dodo's shoulders. Dodo felt comfort in the presence of this strong woman, who had wrestled and conquered. Dodo looked affectionately at her, and, with one of those pretty motions that came so naturally to her, she pressed her back into her chair, and knelt beside her. "Dear Vivy," she said, "my little troubles have made you cry. I am so sorry, dear. You are very good to me. But I want to ask you one thing. About that man your husband was jealous of—" "No, no," said Mrs. Vivian quickly; "that was only one of the incidents which I had to tell you to make the story intelligible." Dodo hesitated. "You are sure you aren't thinking of anyone in my case—of Jack, for instance?" she suddenly said. Mrs. Vivian did not answer for a moment. Then she said,— "Dodo, I am going to be very frank with you. He is an instance—in a way. I don't mean to suppose for a moment that Chesterford is jealous of him, in fact, I know he can't be—it isn't in him; but he is a good instance of the sort of thing that makes you tend to neglect your husband." "But you don't think he is an instance in particular?" demanded Dodo. "I don't mean to bind myself in any way, but I simply want to know." Mrs. Vivian went straight to the point: "That is a question which you can only decide for yourself," she said. "I cannot pretend to judge." Dodo smiled. "Then I will decide for myself," she said. "You see, Jack is never dull. I daresay you may think him so, but I don't. He always manages to amuse me, and, on the whole, the more I am amused the less bored I get in the intervals. He tides me over the difficult places. I allow they are difficult." "Ah, that is exactly what you mustn't allow," said Mrs. Vivian. "You don't seem to realise any possible deficiency in yourself." "Oh, yes, I do," said Dodo, as if she was announcing the most commonplace fact in the world. "I know I am deficient. I don't appreciate devotion, I don't appreciate the quality that makes one gaze and gaze, as it says in the hymn. It is rather frog-like that gazing; what do you call it—batrachian. Now, Maud is batrachian. I daresay it is a very high quality, but I don't quite live up to it. There are, of course, heaps of excellent things one doesn't live up to, like the accounts of the Stock Exchange in the Times. I fully understand that the steadiness of stockings makes a difference to somebody, only it doesn't make any difference to me." "Dodo, you are incorrigible," said Mrs. Vivian, laughing in spite of herself. "I give you up—only, do the best you can. I believe, in the main, you agree with me. And now I must be off. You said Lord Chesterford wished to see me. I suppose he is downstairs." "I think I shall come too," said Dodo. So they went down together. Lord Chesterford was in his study. "Do you know what Mrs. Vivian has been saying to me?" remarked Dodo placidly, as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "She has been telling me I do not love you enough—isn't she ridiculous?" Mrs. Vivian for the moment was nonplussed, but she recovered herself quickly. "Dodo is very naughty to-day," she said. "She misconstrues everything I say." "I don't think it's likely you said that," said he, capturing Dodo's hand, "because it isn't true." "I am certainly de trop," murmured Mrs. Vivian, turning to go. Dodo's hand lay unresistingly in his. "She has been so good and brave," said Lord Chesterford to Mrs. Vivian, "she makes me feel ashamed." Mrs. Vivian felt an immense admiration for him. "I said you deserved a very great deal," she said, putting out her hand to him. "I must go, my carriage has been waiting an hour." He retained Dodo's hand, and they saw her to the door. The footman met them in the hall. "Mr. Broxton wants to know whether you can see him, my lady," he said to Dodo. "Would you like to see Jack?" she asked Chesterford. "I would rather you told him you can't," he said. "Of course I will," she answered. She turned to the footman. "Say I am engaged, but he may come again to-morrow and I will see him. You don't mind my seeing him, do you, Chesterford?" "No, no, dear," he said. Dodo and Chesterford turned back to the drawing-room. Jack was on the steps. "I thought you were engaged at this hour," Mrs. Vivian said to him. "So I was," he answered. "Dodo asked me to come and see her." <hr class="full" /> <hr class="chap" /> <h2>DODO</h2> <h4>A DETAIL OF THE DAY</h4> <h4>BY</h4> <h3>E.F. BENSON</h3> <h4>IN TWO VOLUMES</h4> <h4>VOL. II</h4> <h5>FOURTH EDITION</h5> <h5>METHUEN & CO</h5> <h5>LONDON</h5> <h5>1893</h5> <blockquote> And far out, drifting helplessly on that grey, angry sea, I saw a small boat at the mercy of the winds and waves. And my guide said to me, 'Some call the sea "Falsehood," and that boat "Truth," and others call the sea "Truth," and the boat "Falsehood;" and, for my part, I think that one is right as the other.'—The Professor of Ignorance. </blockquote> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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