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Love at Second Sight

<h3 id="id00209" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER IV</h3> It was utterly impossible, literally out of the question, that Madame Frabelle could know anything about the one trouble, the one danger, that so narrowly escaped being almost a tragedy, in Edith's life. It was three years since Bruce, always inclined to vague, mild flirtations, had been positively carried off his feet, and literally taken away by a determined young art student, with red hair, who had failed to marry a friend of his. While Edith, with the children, was passing the summer holidays at Westgate, Bruce had sent her the strangest of letters, informing her that he and Mavis Argles could not live without one another, and had gone to Australia together, and imploring her to divorce him. The complication was increased by the fact that at that particular moment the most charming man Edith had ever met, Aylmer Ross, that eloquent and brilliant barrister, had fallen in love with her, and she had become considerably attracted to him. Her pride had been hurt at Bruce's conduct, but she had certainly felt it less bitterly, in one way, because she was herself so much fascinated by Aylmer and his devotion. * * * * * But Edith had behaved with cool courage and real unselfishness. She felt certain that Brace's mania would not last, and that if it did he would be miserable. Strangely, then, she had declined to divorce him, and waited. Her prophecy turned out correct, and by the time they arrived at their journey's end the red-haired lady was engaged to a commercial traveller whom she met on the boat. By then Bruce and she were equally convinced that in going to Australia they had decidedly gone too far. * * * * * So Brace came back, and Edith forgave him. She made one condition only (which was also her one revenge), that he should never speak about it, never mention the subject again. Aylmer Ross, who had taken his romance seriously to heart, refused to be kept as l'ami de la maison, and as a platonic admirer. Deeply disappointed—for he was prepared to give his life to Edith and her children (he was a widower of independent means)—he had left England; she had never seen him since. All this had been a real event, a real break in Edith's life. For the first few months after she suffered, missing the excitement of Aylmer's controlled passion, and his congenial society. Gradually she made herself—not forget it—but put aside, ignore the whole incident. It gave her genuine satisfaction to know that she had made a sacrifice for Bruce's sake. She was aware that he could not exist really satisfactorily without her, though perhaps he didn't know it. He needed her. At first she had endeavoured to remain separated from him, while apparently living together, from who knows what feeling of romantic fidelity to Aylmer, or pique at the slight shown her by her husband. Then she found that impossible. It would make him more liable to other complications and the whole situation too full of general difficulties. So now, for the last three years, they had been on much the same terms as they were before. Bruce had become, perhaps, less patronising, more respectful to her, and she a shade more gentle and considerate to him, as to a child. For she was generous and did not forgive by halves. There were moments of nervous irritation, of course, and of sentimental regret. On the whole, though, Edith was glad she had acted as she did. But if occasionally she felt her life a little dull and flat, if she missed some of the excitement of that eventful year, it was impossible for anyone to see it by her manner. What could Madame Frabelle possibly know about it? What did that lady really suppose was the matter? * * * * * 'What do you think I'm unhappy about?' Edith repeated. Madame Frabelle, as has been mentioned, was willing to tell her. She told her, as usual, with fluency and inaccuracy. Edith was much amused to find how strangely mistaken was this authoritative lady as to her intuitions, how inevitably à faux with her penetrations and her instinctive guesses. Madame Frabelle said that she believed Edith was beginning to feel the dawn of love for someone, and was struggling against it. (The struggle of course in reality had long been over.) Who was the person? 'I haven't met him yet,' Madame Frabelle said; 'but isn't there a name I hear very often? Your husband is always talking about him; he told me I was to make the acquaintance of this great friend of his. Something tells me it is he. I shall know as soon as I see him. You can't hide it from me!' Who was the person Bruce was always mentioning to Madame Frabelle? Certainly not Aylmer Ross—he had apparently forgotten his existence. 'Are you referring to—?' Madame Frabelle looked out of the window and nodded. 'Yes—Mr Mitchell!' Edith started, and a smile curved her lips. 'It's always the husband's great friend, unfortunately,' sighed Eglantine. 'Oh, my dear' (with the usual cheap, ready-made knowingness of the cynic), 'I've seen so much of that. Now I'm going to help you. I'm determined to leave you two dear, charming people without a cloud, when I go.' 'You're not thinking of going?' 'Not yet … no. Not while you let me stay here, dear. I've friends in London, and in the country, but I haven't looked them up, or written to them, or done anything since I've been here. I've been too happy. I couldn't be bothered. I am so interested in you! Another thing—may I say?—for I feel as if I'd known you for years. You think your husband doesn't know it. You are wrong.' 'Am I really?' 'Quite. Last night a certain look when he spoke of the Mitchells showed me that Bruce is terribly jealous. He doesn't show it, but he is.' 'But—Mrs Mitchell?' suggested Edith. 'She's one of our best friends—a dear thing. By the way, we're asking them to dine with us on Tuesday.' 'I'm delighted to hear it. I shall understand everything then. Isn't it curious—without even seeing them—that I know all about it? I think I've a touch of second sight.' 'But, Eglantine, aren't you going a little far? Hadn't you better wait until you've seen them, at least. You've no idea how well the Mitchells get on.' 'I've no doubt of it,' she replied, 'and, of course, I don't know that he—Mr Mitchell, I mean—even realises what you are to him. But I do!' Edith was really impressed at the dash with which Madame Frabelle so broadly handled this vague theme. 'Wait till you do see them,' she said, rather mischievously, declining to deny her friend's suggestion altogether. 'Odd I should have guessed it, isn't it?' Madame Frabelle was evidently pleased. 'You'll admit this, Edith, from what your husband says I gather you see each other continually, don't you?' 'Very often.' 'Bruce and he are together at the Foreign Office. Bruce thinks much of him, and admires him. With it all I notice now and then a tinge of bitterness in the way he speaks. He was describing their fancy-dress ball to me the other day, and really his description of Mr Mitchell's costume would have been almost spiteful in any other man.' 'Well, but Mr Mitchell is over sixty. And he was got up as a black poodle.' 'Yes; quite so. But he's a fine-looking man, isn't he? And very pleasant and hospitable?' 'Oh yes, of course.' 'On your birthday last week that magnificent basket of flowers came from Mr Mitchell,' stated Eglantine. 'Certainly; from the Mitchells rather. But, really, that's nothing. I think you'll be a little disappointed if you think he's at all of the romantic type.' 'I didn't think that,' she answered, though of course she had; 'but something told me—I don't know why—that there's some strange attraction…. I never saw a more perfect wife than you, nor a more perfect mother. But these things should be nipped in the bud, dear. They get hold of you sometimes before you know where you are. And think,' she went on with relish, 'how terrible it would be practically to break up two homes!' 'Oh, really, I must stop you there,' cried Edith. 'You don't think of elopements, do you?' 'I don't say that, necessarily. But I've seen a great deal of life. I've lived everywhere, and just the very households—ménages, as we say abroad—that seem most calm and peaceful, sometimes—It would be, anyhow, very dreadful, wouldn't it—to live a double life?' Edith thought her friend rather enjoyed the idea, but she said: 'You don't imagine, I hope, that there's anything in the nature of an intrigue going on between me and Mr Mitchell?' 'No, no, no—not now—not yet—but you don't quite know, Edith, how one can be carried away. As I was sitting up in my room—thinking—' 'You think too much,' interrupted Edith. 'Perhaps so—but it came to me like this. I mean to be the one to put things right again, if I can. My dear child, a woman of the world like myself sees things. You two ought to be ideally happy. You're meant for one another—I mean you and Bruce.' 'Do you think so?' 'Absolutely. But this—what shall I say?—this fascination is coming between you, and, though you don't realise it, it's saddening Bruce's life; it will sadden yours too. At first, no doubt, at the stage you're in, dear, it seems all romance and excitement. But later on—Now, Edith, promise me you won't be angry with me for what I've said? It's a terrible freedom that I've taken, I know. Really a liberty. But if I were your'—she glanced at the mirror—'elder sister, I couldn't be fonder of you. Don't think I'm a horrid, interfering old thing, will you?' 'Indeed I don't; you're a dear.' 'Well, we won't speak of it any more till after Tuesday,' said Madame Frabelle, 'and take my advice: throw yourself into other things.' She glanced round the room. 'It's a splendid idea to divert your thoughts; why don't you refurnish your boudoir?' Edith had often noticed the strange lack in Eglantine of any sense of decoration. She dressed charmingly, but with regard to surroundings she was entirely devoid of taste. She had the curious provincialism so often seen in cosmopolitans who have lived most of their lives in hotels, without apparently noticing or caring about their surroundings. Edith made rather a hobby of decoration, and she had a cultured and quiet taste, and much knowledge on the subject. She guessed Madame Frabelle thought her rooms too plain, too colourless. Instead of the dull greys and blues, and surfaces without design, she felt sure her friend would have preferred gorgeous patterns, and even a good deal of gilt. Probably at heart Madame Frabelle's ideal was the crimson plush and stamped leather and fancy ceilings of the lounge in a foreign hotel. 'I rather like my room, you know,' said Edith. 'And so do I. It's very charming. But a change, dear—a change of entourage, as we say abroad, would do you good.' 'Well, we must really think that out,' said Edith. 'That's right. And you're not cross?' 'Cross? I don't know when I've enjoyed a conversation so much,' said Edith, speaking with perfect truth. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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