The Lion's Share - Arnold Bennett (room on the broom read aloud .TXT) 📗

that a new great campaign will soon begin. It is all arranged. It will necessitate my returning to England and challenging the police. You know also that Jane Foley was to have been my lieutenant-in-chief--for the active part of the operation. You will admit that I can no longer count on her completely. Will you take her place?"

"I'll help," said Audrey. "I'll do what I can. I dare say I shan't have much money, because one of those 'accidents' you mentioned has happened to me already."

"That need not trouble you," replied Rosamund imperturbable. "I have always been able to get all the money that was needed."

"Well, I'll help all I can."

"That's not what I ask," said Rosamund inflexibly. "Will you take Jane Foley's place? Will you give yourself utterly?"

Audrey answered with sudden vehemence:

"No, I won't. You didn't want a definite answer, but there it is."

"But surely you believe in the cause?"

"Yes."

"It's the greatest of all causes."

"I'm rather inclined to think it is."

"Why not give yourself, then? You are free. I have given myself, my child."

"Yes," said Audrey, who resented the appellation of "child." "But, you see, it's your hobby."

"My hobby, Mrs. Moncreiff!" exclaimed Rosamund.

"Certainly, your hobby," Audrey persisted.

"I have sacrificed everything to it," said Rosamund.

"Pardon me," said Audrey. "I don't think you've sacrificed anything to it. You just enjoy bossing other people above everything, and it gives you every chance to boss. And you enjoy plots too, and look at the chances you get for that'. Mind you, I like you for it. I think you're splendid. Only _I_ don't want to be a monomaniac, and I won't be." Her convictions seemed to have become suddenly clear and absolutely decided.

"Do you mean to infer that I am a monomaniac?" asked Rosamund, raising her eyebrows--but only a little.

"Well," said Audrey, "as you mentioned frankness--what else would you call yourself but a monomaniac? You only live for one thing--don't you, now?"

"It is the greatest thing."

"I don't say it isn't," Audrey admitted. "But I've been thinking a good deal about all this, and at last I've come to the conclusion that one thing-isn't enough for me, not nearly enough. And I'm not going to be peculiar at any price. Neither a fanatic nor a monomaniac, nor anything like that."

"You are in love," asserted Rosamund.

"And what if I am? If you ask me, I think a girl who isn't in love ought to be somewhat ashamed of herself, or at least sorry for herself. And I am sorry for myself, because I am not in love. I wish I was. Why shouldn't I be? It must be lovely to be in love. If I was in love I shouldn't be _only_ in love. You think you understand what girls are nowadays, but you don't. I didn't myself until just lately. But I'm beginning to. Girls were supposed to be only interested in one thing--in your time. Monomaniacs, that's what they had to be. You changed all that, or you're trying to change it, but you only mean women to be monomaniacs about something else. It isn't good enough. I want everything, and I'm going to get it--or have a good try for it. I'll never be a martyr if I can help it. And I believe I can help it. I believe I've got just enough common sense to save me from being a martyr --either to a husband or a house or family--or a cause. I want to have a husband and a house and a family, and a cause too. That'll be just about everything, won't it? And if you imagine I can't look after all of them at once, all I can say is I don't agree with you. Because I've got an idea I can. Supposing I had all these things, I fancy I could have a tiff with my husband and make it up, play with my children, alter a dress, change the furniture, tackle the servants, and go out to a meeting and perhaps have a difficulty with the police--all in one day. Only if I did get into trouble with the police I should pay the fine--you see. The police aren't going to have me altogether. Nobody is. Nobody, man or woman, is going to be able to boast that he's got me altogether. You think you're independent. But you aren't. We girls will show you what independence is."

"You're a rather surprising young creature," observed Rosamund with a casual air, unmoved. "You're quite excited."

"Yes. I surprise myself. But these things do come in bursts. I've noticed that before. They weren't clear when you began to talk. They're clear now."

"Let me tell you this," said Rosamund. "A cause must have martyrs."

"I don't see it," Audrey protested. "I should have thought common sense would be lots more useful than martyrs. And monomaniacs never do have common sense."

"You're very young."

"Is that meant for an insult, or is it just a statement?" Audrey laughed pleasantly.

And Rosamund laughed too.

"It's just a statement," said she.

"Well, here's another statement," said Audrey. "You're very old. That's where I have the advantage of you. Still, tell me what I can do in your new campaign, and I'll do it if I can. But there isn't going to be any utterly--that's all."

"I think the interval is over," said Rosamund with finality. "Perhaps we'd better adjourn."

The foyer had nearly emptied. The distant sound of music could be heard.

As she was re-entering the hall, Audrey met Mr. Cowl, who was coming out.

"I have decided I can't stand any more," Mr. Cowl remarked in a loud whisper. "I hope you didn't mind me telling you about the Zacatecas. As I said, I thought you might be interested. Good-bye. So pleasant to have met you again, dear lady." His face had the same enigmatic smile which had made him so formidable at Moze.

Musa had already begun to play the Spanish Symphony of Lalo, without which no genius is permitted to make his formal debut on the violin in France.


CHAPTER XLIII


ENTR'ACTE

After the Spanish Symphony not only the conductor but the entire orchestra followed Musa from the platform, and Audrey understood that the previous interval had not really been an interval and that the first genuine interval was about to begin. The audience seemed to understand this too, for practically the whole of it stood up and moved towards the doors. Audrey would have stayed in her seat, but Miss Ingate expressed a desire to go out and "see the fun" in the foyer, and, moreover, she asserted that the Foas from their box had been signalling to her and Audrey an intention to meet them in the foyer. Miss Ingate was in excellent spirits. She said it beat her how Musa's fingers could get through so many notes in so short a time, and also that it made her feel tired even to watch the fingers. She was convinced that nobody had ever handled the violin so marvellously before. As for success, Musa had been recalled, and the applause from the gallery, fired by its religious belief, was obstinate and extremely vociferous. Audrey, however, was aware of terrible sick qualms, for she knew that Musa was not so far dominating his public. Much of the applause had obviously the worst quality that applause can have--it was good-natured. Yet she could not accept failure for Musa. Failure would be too monstrous an injustice, and therefore it could not happen.

The emptiness of the Foas' box indicated that Miss Ingate might be correct in her interpretation of signals, and Audrey allowed herself to be led away from the now forlorn auditorium. As they filed along the gangways she had to listen to the indifferent remarks of utterly unprejudiced and uninterested persons about the performance of genius, and further she had to learn that a fair proportion of them were departing with no intention to return. In the thronged foyer they saw Mr. Gilman, alone, before he saw them. He was carrying a box of chocolates--doubtless one of the little things that Mr. Price had had instructions to provide for the evening, Mr. Gilman perhaps would not have caught sight of them had it not been for the stridency of Miss Ingate's voice, which caused him to turn round.

Audrey experienced once again the sensation--which latterly was apt to recur in her--of having too many matters on her mind simultaneously; in a phrase, the sensation of the exceeding complexity of existence. And she resented it. The interview with Rosamund was quite enough for one night. It had been a triumph for her; she had surprised herself in that interview; it had left her with a conviction of freedom; it had uplifted her. She ought to have been in a state of exaltation after that interview, and she was. Only, while in a state of exaltation, she was still in the old state of depression--about the tendency of the concert, of her concert, and about the rumoured disappearance of her fortune. Also she was preoccupied by the very strange affair of Jane Foley and Aguilar.

And now--a further intricacy of mood--came a whole new set of emotions due to the mere spectacle of Mr. Gilman's august back! She was intimidated by Mr. Gilman's back. She knew horribly that in the afternoon she had treated Mr. Gilman as Mr. Gilman ought never to have been treated. And, quite apart from intimidation, she had another feeling, a feeling which was ghastly and of which she was ashamed.... Assuming the disappearance of her fortune, would Mr. Gilman's attitude towards her be thereby changed? ... She admitted that young girls ought not to have such suspicions against respectable and mature men of established position in the world. Nevertheless, she could not blow the suspicion away.

But the instant Mr. Gilman's eye met hers the suspicion vanished, and not the suspicion only, but all her intimidation. The miracle was produced by something in the gaze of Mr. Gilman as it rested on her, something wistful--not more definable than that, something which she had noticed in Mr. Gilman's gaze on other occasions. It perfectly restored her. It gave her the positive assurance of a fact which marvellously enheartens young girls of about Audrey's years--to wit, that they have a mysterious power surpassing the power of age, knowledge, wisdom, or wealth, that they influence and decide the course of history, and are the sole true mistresses of the world. Whence the mysterious power sprang she did not exactly know, but she surmised--rightly--that it was connected with her youth, with a dimple, with the incredibly soft down on her cheek, with the arch softness of her glance, with a gesture of the hand, with a turn of the shoulder, with a pleat of the skirt.... Anyhow, she possessed it, and to possess it was to wield it. It transformed her into a delicious tyrant, but a tyrant; it inspired her with exquisite cruelty, but cruelty. Her thoughts might have been summed up in eight words:

"Pooh! He has suffered. Well, he must suffer."

Ah! But she meant to be very kind to him. He was so reliable, so adorable, and so dependent. She had genuine affection for him. And he was at once a rock and a cushion.

"Isn't it going splendidly--splendidly, Mr. Gilman?" exclaimed Miss Ingate in her enthusiasm.

"Apparently," said Mr. Gilman, with comfort in his voice.

At that moment the musical critic with large, dark Eastern eyes, whom Audrey had