III

When Sophia went to Canterbury, Lucilla had her sister Maria as nursemaid, seamstress, and anything else she could make of her, which, she felt, was not much, even then. But she kindly took Maria to see Tiffany, lending her a feather boa to make her smart but wearing her own best hat of black velvet bows and orange plumes, so that no one should mistake the difference in their positions.

Yet Fate, it seemed, was making a mistake somewhere or surely they would not have arrived simultaneously with Jermyn's latest book, which Sally was just taking from its wrappings, pausing now and then because even this chilly hands-across-the-sea affair made her stupid heart jump and flutter so. Lucilla struck attitudes at once, having become much more dramatic since Mr Piper got on the Sanitary Board.

“La! What do I see? The latest Jermyn Lovel? What joy! I simply dote on his heroes.”

“They're not like Mr Piper, certainly,” snapped Maria … who should be thankful that Mr Piper paid her any wages at all. Sally smiled faintly, allowing Lucilla to take the book. No secrets now from Jermyn, inscribing one copy of each of the many volumes appearing so regularly to: “My old friends, Sir Peregrine & Lady Lovel. With the author's compliments.”

The author's compliments were still terrifying to a Sally who had once found the mysticism of love and religion so finely blended in her that she had nightly pledged herself to God and Jermyn, feeling them so very much one, since it was only they that made life possible. But that was so long ago. Everything was so long ago, thought Sally, hearing Lucilla being dramatic over Jermyn's book.

“Passionate Partners. I vow I never heard anything page 457 more romantic. Isn't he clever! And the heroine called Adora. Oh …” Lucilla reflected. There was still time to produce an Adora herself. After three boys there would surely be some more girls. If only one knew, she thought, feeling that we really didn't know half enough yet.

“Is that his wife's name?” asked Maria.

“Don't be stupid. You know she's Sabina. But he may call her Adora. He is so vastly original. I vow he is the most original man I ever met.”

Tiffany stopped handing cakes and crumpets and sat down suddenly. She had never heard of this marriage. Had mamma forgot to tell her, or was it that she just couldn't? Without daring to look she knew it was because she couldn't, and suddenly she snatched the book from Lucilla, and searched for what she feared to find. Had this stuff run serially in The Young Ladies' Journal? It seemed likely. No wonder Jermyn was rich, for the world has many Lucillas.

“Such a mercy he went to England and married someone who could help him. He sells thousands and thousands of his books now, Tiffy,” said Lucilla.

Tiffany shut her lips on a tart: “So I should imagine.” She must not hurt this poor little mamma who cared for Jermyn still. Jermyn's weakness, Sally's strength … both could destroy. Jermyn, it seemed, was already destroyed, and he was destroying the woman who had loved him so long. Oh, what could she say? If only Roddy were here to help her out.

“I haven't had the chance to read any of his books yet,” she said haltingly. And then (bless him) Roddy came in with his magic wand that could bring smiles to any face. Tiffany felt the tension lifted as Lucilla flung herself gushingly upon him.

“Roddy! Oh, what do you think? Passionate Partners! Jermyn always chooses such elegant titles.”

“Whatever he does will always be elegant,” said Roddy, very genial. “No! You're not to have it, Lucy. Buy it, page 458 my dear. That's the action of a true friend.” He put the novel on top of the bookcase; crooked his arm and bent his knee as though holding a guitar, sang with his laughing eyes upon her:

Oh, dear! How I love my Lucy.
She's fair. Her lips are red and juicy.

“Get along with you, you impudent wretch,” cried Lucilla, highly delighted. “I vow no one but you would dare sing that to a married lady.”

“Well, I own it's neither gentlemanly nor clever,” said Roddy. But it had served its turn. Passionate Partners was forgotten until Tiffany resurrected it later when Roddy came to her room to say good night.

“Roddy, I didn't know about Jermyn's marriage or anything. Are all his books as bad as that dreadful thing?”

“The last enchantment of the medicore, I'm afraid, Tiffy. A sort of Victorian pagoda with swarms of little tinkling bells. It's not the same Jermyn, poor old chap.” Roddy considered for a moment the tragic disorderly vitality of our humanity. “You see, I think the little mammy would have had him hitch his wagon to a star … and the star was too far off. He had to have something he could lay his hands on now. But she's kept him sweet in some way. He never wallows in the indecencies. Just offers sops to simpletons … and so many writers do that.”

“Don't make excuses for him.” (This Roddy who could always discern some happy ghost, some faint shining of the immortal spirit in the most earthy of us!) “I'd much rather he were indecent,” cried Tiffany, pushing her hair up until she looked like an accusing Fury. “That would show some kind of strength in him. But to sink his wit and brains to this! And for money! I shall never forgive him.”

“That's neither here nor there. She has.” Nothing a bedazzled, befooled Jermyn could do would alter that page 459 love's pure passion which set it among the Eternities. “I saw him in England, you know. He has married one of his coronetted correspondents, and she has helped him to an adoring following. He really does the best he can with … with what he has now, and it is natural that he thinks it better than it is. We're all apt to do that.” So seldom, he thought, do any of us dare hammer out of our conscience the weapon which may slay that poor pride which we so cherish.

“Don't! To have loved mamma … and come to this! It makes me ill.”

“Well … I can't blame him. A man is all loose ends without a woman, Tiffy. Though I have never found mine … except in dreams.”

“Roddy dear … Do you find her then?”

He nodded, looking away with the lines on his brown face deepening.

“It won't go into words, Tiffy. The real things never will. Some kind of ancient hauntings … memories … I don't know…. Sometimes I feel that she lived in some long-past world and that I knew her there … and will know her again in another world. Or it may be a dim ancestral knowledge of the central spirit of all Beauty and Love taking shape…. I can't explain. I shall see her some day. Not here….

“It really is a sane insanity, Tiffy,” said Roddy, being gay again and going away….

Lucilla, thought Sally, must have been more noisy than usual to have tired her so very much. But it was good to lie on her couch, and watch the chintz roses on the chairs and dream she was back in the chintz room where she was a girl. And better to have Roddy come with his gay smile, holding her hand until some power in him seemed dancing through her.

“Roddy,” she ventured, “Tiffy will have Brant in Eternity, but … do you think you could spare a little time for me there? Just sometimes, dear?”

page 460

“God bless you, you ridiculous little handful! You won't be able to get rid of me. Not even when Jermyn comes.”

“Oh! No! No, Roddy.” She struggled up on her cushions in distress. “Don't say such a dreadful thing. He has his wife.”

“Don't you fret. That little sugar-plum of his don't belong to the Eternities. She's only a makeweight. You'll have us both fighting for you like the lion and the unicorn all around the sky … and His Omnipotence skirmishing outside the meteors with his celestial coat-tails flying.”

“Oh, Roddy, don't make me laugh…. Oh!” Her hands went to her breast, she looked with piteous blue eyes. “So sorry, dear … this silly heart. It feels—”

With the first pale light in the East they thought her gone. But Sally had yet one thing to say, opening eager eyes, flushing brightly.

“I see the flowers, Jermyn,” she cried triumphantly. “There will be bouquets for buttonholes.”