The Limit Part 4

"I don't wish to worry you, my dear ..."

"No?"

"... But I, personally, if I were a man ... perhaps I oughtn't to say it--if I saw my wife so much in the society of a person like Harry de Freyne--upon my word, I should begin to ask myself what were their relations!"

"Cousins," said Romer.

He began to tap his foot slowly against the rail of the chair, but remembered Valentia's constant advice, and decided he would not quarrel.

"Well, you know your affairs best, dear. I'm only an interfering disagreeable old woman, who knows very little of modern customs and ways."

He nodded sympathetically, without answering.

"I love and admire Valentia--in many ways. She's so pretty, but not a mere doll! And we women--even the happiest of us--have to go through so much! Does she go through the housekeeping books herself, dear?" Mrs.

Wyburn inquired, with dangerous sweetness.

"Shouldn't think so."

"Ah! that seems rather a pity. Still, I'm just to every one, and I will say that she's not extravagant--but has so much cleverness that she could manage very well on half the allowance you give her!"

"Is that new--that china bird?" Romer asked, getting up to look at a strange, s.h.i.+ny, abnormal-looking parrot on a twig that adorned the mantelpiece.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"It seems all right. Rather jolly."

"Oh! Well, it's funny you haven't noticed it before. Considering it's been there all your life, and you used to play with it when you were four, it's odd it's escaped your notice. You played with it when you were four!" she repeated, growing rather heated.

"Did I though?"

"But things do escape your notice--that's just the point. I sometimes wish I didn't see so much myself."

"So do I," he answered. "May I smoke, mother?"

"Of course you may, dear. You may do anything on earth you like. Have some tea? _I_ never have anything but China tea, so it won't do you any harm."

"I hate China tea," he answered reflectively, after what seemed to his mother about half an hour's deep thought.

... "But what I always have said about Valentia is that though we all admit, dear, that she has charming manners, is bright and amusing and very sweet----"

He smiled.

"_Outwardly_, is there anything behind it all? Has she any depth?" She quickly answered her own question, "_I_ think she has; a great deal. I believe Valentia is extremely clever in her own way; she turns _you_ round her little finger. But that wouldn't matter so much--anything's better than quarrelling and snapping and finding fault continually--which is a thing I hate. But, really, there's one point I'm quite anxious about--in fact, I often lie awake the whole night--the entire night--and wake up in the morning utterly worn out through thinking about it, Romer dear. There's nothing like a mother's heart--and this does make me anxious, I own."

"What?"

"Why, that she should ever be talked about! That she should be considered a flirt--and that sort of thing! I couldn't bear the idea of my son's wife having her name coupled with that of any young man--or any nonsense of that sort. It would be most painful to me. I'm sure I ask every one who knows her if anything of that kind is ever said."

Romer threw away the cigarette and stood up.

"What infernal rot!" he said, with a heightened colour.

Her eyes brightened with pleasure. She was delighted to have irritated him at last out of his calmness.

"Well, well, perhaps I'm a little over-anxious. It's all love, all devotion to you, dear. Of course, people do talk. There's no doubt about that; but good gracious! we all know there's nothing in it. Don't we?

Don't be cross with your poor old mother, Romer."

"That's all right. I must be off. Eight on Thursday, eh?"

She kissed him affectionately, walked with him to the landing, where she kept him for about ten minutes complaining of the awful worry she had had about the under-housemaid, and of the sickening impossibility of getting a piano-tuner to attend to the instrument properly without making any sound.

"For I'm a ma.s.s of nerves, my dear. Give my best love to dear Valentia."

CHAPTER V

ROMER

Romer walked back, trying to throw off the irritating effect of his mother's pin-p.r.i.c.ks. As was his usual custom when he was a little depressed, he went home and sat down in front of his wife's portrait. He often sat there for an hour when she was out, looking at it. Any one watching him would have thought he was in a state of calm and stupid content. In reality, he was wors.h.i.+pping. His pa.s.sion for his wife was his one romance, his one interest, his one thought. He had been married five years, and had never yet expressed it in words. He was one of the unfortunate people who are not gifted with the power of expression, either in word or look. He was practically inarticulate.

As he gazed at the picture--he was feeling a little sad--the sadness melted away. The frail figure, bright yet dim, vaguely appearing through vaporous curtains, holding an impossible gold flower, had the effect on him of a beautiful Madonna on a deeply devout Catholic. It produced in him a form of religious ecstasy. He adored her with pa.s.sion, and with the selfishness and jealousy of pa.s.sion, but circ.u.mstances and his temperament caused it to take the outward form, princ.i.p.ally, of care for her happiness. When she was actually present, she still dazzled him so much that he could show his feeling only by listening to and agreeing with every word she said, by doing what she asked him, and by trying to protect her, often without her knowledge, from any kind of pain or trouble. She would have been amazed had she realised the violence of his devotion to her. Apparently cool and matter-of-fact, he was in reality a reticent fanatic. He neither a.n.a.lysed nor showed his sentiment, nor did he himself know its extent. He wondered why certain people, certain subjects gave him pain. He trusted Valentia absolutely, nor could she in his eyes do wrong, and it was only with the subconscious second sight of love that he sometimes felt a curious and melancholy presentiment. He did not know himself that this suffering was jealousy.

What nonsense his mother talked!...

Harry!... Harry was the best fellow in the world--almost like a brother, his greatest friend, though not exactly an intimate friend. Romer was too shy to be intimate with any one. Harry was lively, amusing, a brilliant talker; kind, good-natured, a capital chap. He appreciated Valentia, or he could not have painted that portrait. Romer was very grateful for the portrait; yet it sometimes hurt him to think Harry had painted it. It showed how well Harry understood Valentia.

This thought Romer always suppressed. He thought it was mean, and he could not be mean.

He looked out of the window. It was raining--a chilly spring shower--but there was a stir in the air, a rattle in the town, a sense of something that was going to happen; summer was not far off, and in the summer, at the end of the season, they would go down to the Green Gate, the lovely country house with the dream garden as Valentia called it, all built, planted, and arranged on purpose for her. Valentia was more herself at the Green Gate than anywhere else. Leisure suited her, and roses.

Every year Romer silently counted the weeks until they went back there.

It was where he was happiest. Of course, they were not alone. Dear little Daphne was always with them, dear little thing (she was nearly six feet high)--and other people, very often, and Harry--always Harry.

Perhaps Daphne would marry soon, but what about Harry?

Romer felt rather wearied when he remembered Valentia had said Harry was made to be a bachelor. Was he tired of Harry? Not a bit! Harry was a capital chap; besides, he didn't see so very much of him in London.

Heaps of people admired Valentia, and that did not annoy Romer at all (though it did not please him particularly), but he knew, again subconsciously, that Valentia cared less than nothing for any admirers, but she certainly was awfully fond of Harry. And no wonder! Harry was the best fellow in the world--lively, amusing, quite a brilliant talker; kind, good natured, and he appreciated Valentia, or he could not have painted that portrait....

Round and round the same thoughts pa.s.sed through his brain.

It was raining--a chilly spring shower. Had Valentia got her wrap with her?

He got up, went into the hall, and saw her fur cloak hanging on a peg.

She evidently didn't care for it. She was tired of it--perhaps it was out of fas.h.i.+on; if so, she would never wear it. She might catch cold.