# Madame Claire/Chapter 17

Judy had neither seen nor heard from Major Crosby since the day they had tea together at Madame Claire's. She had written him a note to thank him for his flowers, the sending of which had both pleased and touched her. Knowing his poverty and his reserve, she read into his gift, more, perhaps, than he had intended she should. Chip looked upon the sending of flowers as the natural tribute to be paid to any charming woman, and imagined in his simplicity, that she must receive very many such gifts. She guessed this, but at the same time she also guessed that never before in his life, probably, had he sent flowers to a woman. Pink roses, too. . . .
She wondered about him a good deal—wondered what he did with himself evenings, and where and how he spent his Sundays. Like Madame Claire, she felt that Chip was a man not marked for success, but at least she was determined that, whatever happened, his life should be less empty and colorless because of that accident in the fog.
​On the whole, however, she dreaded the evening for him. She felt that he would be neither amused nor benefited by it. She knew she would get little help from her mother, and as for Gordon and Helen, they never bothered with people unless they mattered.
Once more, Helen had not been reckoned with. She sat next to Chip at table, and soon saw that he had eyes only for her future sister-in-law—and a tongue only for her too, it seemed. Helen decided to be bored at first, but as she was slightly annoyed with Gordon, who sat on her left, she presently turned her batteries full on the surprised Chip, who had no idea he was neglecting his neighbor. Helen could be very charming when the spirit moved her. After inviting him to her house to meet a writer whose work he admired, she went on to what she had learned was his chief interest. That she lowered her voice to discuss.
"A tremendously important subject . . . we moderns want to know . . . made rather a study of these things myself . . . esoteric beliefs . . ." were scraps that Judy's ears couldn't ignore. And later, "I do wish we'd met before. Why is it that people who do things that are worth while are always so hard to get at? One has to hunt ​them out of their holes, as," she laughed, "I mean to hunt you."
Chip made some appropriate answer to this, and Helen was about to continue her attack when Millie cut in with:
"Is it the Crosbys of Crosby Steynes, or the Crosbys of Middle Regis you're related to, Major Crosby? They're both such delightful people."
And Chip was lost to the rest of the table for a good ten minutes while he and Millie dived together into a sea of relationships. At the end of it, Millie came to the surface with nothing better in the way of a catch than some entirely unclassified Crosbys who lived somewhere near Aberdeen. The ladies then departed to the drawing-room.
Left alone with Mr. Pendleton, Gordon and a friend of his, a Captain Stevens from the Foreign Office, Chip did some classifying on his own account. Gordon, he decided, was a young man who had much to learn, but the chances were that he would never learn it. He liked Mr. Pendleton, who was determined to be a pleasant host. As for Captain Stevens, he thought him a nice fellow, in spite of his admission that he spent his nights dancing. He wondered at first if perhaps ​Judy—but five minutes' conversation with the young man convinced him that he wasn't Judy's sort. He missed Noel, with his easy manners, and his human touch.
When they went up to the drawing-room, which was cleared for dancing, he went straight to Judy, and sat beside her on a settee, thus defeating Captain Stevens, who had intended doing the same thing.
"Is this where I begin?" asked Chip, looking fearfully at the satiny floor.
"I don't know," said Judy. "I'm wondering that myself. Suppose we let the young people dance to-night?" She laughed. "Somehow I haven't the heart to make you. I'm afraid you'll hate it, after all, and I'm not a bit in the mood for it myself."
"I don't want you to think me a coward," Chip told her, "but I'd be ever so much happier if I could stay just where I am. Perhaps I could learn something by watching Captain Stevens. I expect he dances like a wave of the sea."
"He's marvelous," agreed Judy. "Hundreds of maidens have tried to marry him for his dancing, but I understand he's never yet met his equal and won't wed until he does."
Chip shook his head.
​"I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I believe several generations have gone by without my noticing it. But I've made up my mind to learn something about this one. When do your brother and Miss Dane expect to be married?"
"In June. How do you like Helen?"
"She was very kind. I shouldn't say it, perhaps, but wasn't there something of the Lady Bountiful about it all?"
Judy laughed.
"Helen likes patronizing the arts. The arts are very fashionable just now in her set. I like Helen, really. If only she and her friends weren't so fond of posing—and they find new poses every year—one would like them better. But it isn't as if Noel were marrying her. Gordon has always seemed to belong to other people's families more than to his own, and now of course he'll be entirely absorbed by Lord Ottway's, and their friends and relations."
"He's not a bit like your brother Noel. I think Noel is one of the most attractive young men I ever met. He has such a way of making one feel his friend at once."
"Of course there's no one like him," said Judy, delighted at this praise, "but Gordon's the one who'll succeed."
​"Ah, very likely. Success. . . . I wonder which is worse; to ignore it, or to bow down to it? I've ignored it all my life. I've never thought about it. And now I've suddenly discovered that I want it. Yes, I want it badly. And I'm wondering if it's too late . . . if it won't, perhaps, ignore me, now?"
His eyes met hers, frankly. What he meant was that without success he felt he could not enjoy her friendship. At least he thought he meant that. Judy thought he meant something quite different.
Then Noel came in with Connie, and that ended their talk for the present. Connie was looking wonderfully young and extremely handsome, and was no more made up than was permissible. Her lovely gray gown and her triple row of pearls—Morton Freeman's gift—became her to perfection. She looked a different woman from the painted, haggard creature Eric had first seen in Paris. Millie's greeting was formal, while Mr. Pendleton's—he had expected something so very much worse—was almost effusive. A look from Millie, however, soon put him in his place, which, for the rest of the evening, was the smoking room. Chip was talking to Noel, and Judy was just beginning to feel that the evening might not be a ​fiasco after all, when Helen, assured and smiling, bore down upon Chip.
"Here's good dancing material, unless I'm much mistaken," she said. "Any one who appreciates poetry must have a sense of rhythm, and if you have that, you can dance." So she led him protesting helplessly, to the floor.
"Bother Helen," said Judy under her breath. "If he ever did learn to dance, I intended teaching him myself." She felt a little ruffled, although she realized perfectly that Helen's attentions to Chip were probably occasioned by some little tiff with Gordon.
As she danced with Captain Stevens, she watched Chip, and saw that he was acquitting himself creditably. But it seemed to her all wrong that he should be dancing at all. It didn't suit him. He wasn't a dancing man and never would be. She was glad of it. There were plenty of Captain Stevens' sort about. She suddenly felt a distaste for that form of amusement. In the midst of the moving couples, and the raucous voice of the gramophone, a wave of distaste and boredom came over her. What was she doing with her life? Nothing. It was empty, useless, senseless. She wasn't wanted anywhere. And now she was trying to drag Chip into that empti​ness. To what end? To be told by Helen how to point his toes? Better have left him with his books. He was too good for that sort of thing.
If Chip wanted her, she would marry him. She liked everything about him—even his oddly cut evening clothes, that reminded her of Du Maurier's drawings. She caught his eyes just then, and there was a rather pleading look in them. He evidently wasn't enjoying his lesson. Well, the gramophone would run down in a minute, and then they could all stop. She hadn't spoken a word to Captain Stevens, who, fortunately, thought she was so thrilled by the perfection of his dancing that she didn't want to spoil a perfect moment by speaking.
She tried to picture herself married to Chip. It would mean managing on nothing a year in that tiny flat, or one like it. To-night she was sure she wouldn't mind. It would take them months—years perhaps, to know each other well. It would be such fun finding out. And being modern and willing to face facts, she tried to picture herself wheeling a perambulator about Campden Hill on the nurse's day out. By that time Chip would have had a great success with his book on religions or some other book, and they would have a house. Yes, poverty and all, if Chip ​wanted her, she would marry him. Only Noel was right. She would have to be bold. . . .
The gramophone ran down and the dancing stopped. Captain Stevens, full of enthusiasm, exclaimed:
"That was glorious! We must have another fox-trot." And went to put on another record.
Judy made her way to where Connie was sitting, and on hearing her say she had not yet met Helen, she introduced them. Helen, who had already decided she wouldn't be above asking Connie's advice about her trousseau, sat beside her and talked about Cannes and Monte Carlo, while Gordon, who had greeted his aunt with extreme coldness, stood a few feet away and impersonated a young man in the sulks. Judy was about to go to him, when the maid appeared in the doorway, and Judy, seeing that she had something to say to her, crossed the room.
"You're wanted on the telephone, Miss Judy," said the maid. "It's Dawson, and she wants to speak to you most particularly, Miss."
"Dawson!" exclaimed Judy. "I hope it doesn't mean . . ." but without finishing her sentence she ran to the telephone, which was downstairs.
"Is that you, Miss Judy?" asked Dawson. "We're a little upset here to-night. A telegram ​came from Miss McPherson about Mr. de Lisle, and it seems the poor gentleman's quite ill, and wants to see you or Mr. Eric. We've rung up Mr. Eric, and he says he can't possibly get away this week. So we wondered if you could go, Miss. It would mean leaving at once, Miss Judy."
Judy didn't hesitate.
"Of course I'll go. Tell Madame Claire I'll go to-morrow. Is she in bed?"
"She is, Miss. The telegram should have come two hours ago, but it was sent to the wrong room. We do think, Miss, that it would be better in a way for Mr. Eric to go, but we don't like to take any risks, in case the old gentleman's very ill indeed. And it's out of the question for us to go ourselves, Miss."
"But of course I'll go!" Judy repeated. "Dawson, tell Madame Claire not to worry, and that I'll be off the very minute I can get a passport. I'm so sorry for poor old Mr. de Lisle. Is Madame Claire very much upset?"
"Well, not what you'd call upset," Dawson replied. "We do keep calm, Miss, whatever happens. But it is sad, the time being so near when he hoped to come to England."
"He'll come yet, I feel sure. I'll send a wire to-morrow to say I'm leaving. I'll probably come ​in the morning for a minute to say good-by. Give Madame Claire my love, and tell her the trip will be a godsend to me."
She went straight to her mother with the news. Millie was thoroughly annoyed.
"I think your grandmother has taken leave of her senses," she said. "First Connie and now this. You can't possibly go to Cannes alone."
"Mother!" Judy exclaimed. "Please don't treat me as though I were a child or an imbecile. You know perfectly well I can go—and must go. If you and father won't help me, Claire will pay my expenses. I know she'll offer to, anyway."
"You had better speak to your father," said Millie with chilling disapproval.
It was undoubtedly one of Mr. Pendleton's best days. He looked almost indulgently at his handsome, excited daughter, and said:
"Well, Judith, I can see you're bent on going. I suppose you'll find friends there. You might arrange to come back with some of them. My only fear is that the old man will die, and that would be very awkward for you. They make a considerable to-do in France, when people die. Still, I suppose if your grandmother wants it . . ."
Considerably later, she found herself alone ​with Chip again. He had been danced with twice by Helen, and felt that he had earned a respite.
"How long do you think you'll be gone?" he asked, on hearing the news.
"I suppose that depends on Mr. de Lisle."
"Is he Stephen de Lisle? The man who was . . . what was it? . . . Home Secretary, I think. A good many years ago. And I seem to remember some tremendous quarrel, with the then Prime Minister. A man with a very fine head. I remember his pictures quite well."
"That's Old Stephen. He was a great, great friend of mine when I was seven, and I haven't seen him since. But he's always been in love with Madame Claire—since before she married my grandfather. People of their generation did that sort of thing—loved for a lifetime. I wonder why nobody does now?"
"Are you sure they don't?" he asked.
"Certain of it. The thing to do nowadays is to console oneself as quickly as possible. And I think there is a good deal of prejudice against wasting lives, and wasted lives. And rightly, too, I suppose." Then, changing the subject: "I'll be away for several weeks, and I wish you'd write to me and let me know if the headaches have stopped, and how you're getting on, generally. I ​shall be at the Riviera Hotel, in Cannes, where Old Stephen is."
"May I write? But I'm afraid you'll find my letters very dull. I see so few people. I suppose," he added, "I ought to have had more to do with people. Only, when a man has nothing whatever to offer, he is apt to retire into his shell. I did, and I should have remained there, if it hadn't been for you. . . ."
"Promise me, then," she said, looking at him seriously, "that you won't slip back into it again the moment my back is turned. I'd like you to see something of Madame Claire, and of Noel. They both like you, you know, and will want to see you. Will you promise me that?"
"I'll do anything you think is good for me," he answered, smiling. Then he too looked serious.
"Miss Pendleton, you don't know what it means to a man to feel himself tied by the lack of money. I suppose another man in my place would have found some way of making it. No doubt I should have chucked writing long ago, or tried to write something more lucrative than a book on religion. But, on the other hand, should I? If I have written something of any value, if the book is well received, I shall feel justified in having spent so many years on it. If it isn't? Well, I don't know. ​I don't think I'd have the heart to launch out into business, at forty-four. But I hardly expect you to understand that. You're young and happy. You have everything in front of you."
"Happy?" asked Judy. "Did you say happy?"
He looked quickly at her.
"Aren't you?"
She met his eyes squarely.
"If a rat in a trap or a squirrel in a cage is happy, then perhaps I am. I hate the life I'm living. Yes, I do, I hate it. If it weren't for Noel and Madame Claire, I'd—I don't know what I'd do. Something pretty desperate, just to get away from it."
He sat looking at her as if he couldn't trust his own senses. She couldn't be serious.
"You're a sentimentalist," she went on. "You believe what you like to believe. I suppose you've imagined all sorts of pretty things about me. I assure you, that rather than go on living as I've been living, I'd change places with the between-maid in our kitchen. It wasn't so bad during the war. I did nursing then. But now, because I'm the only daughter, mother and father won't hear of my taking up any sort of work. I go once a week to Bermondsy to teach a class of girls hat-trimming, and even that's frowned upon be​cause I once got measles there. No, I'm expected to sit with folded hands until some young man comes along and marries me. Isn't it extraordinary, in this day and age?"
Chip was still speechless.
"And I'll go on like this till I die, I suppose, or marry somebody out of sheer boredom. And I keep asking myself what I ought to do. What would some one else do in my place? Should I simply walk out of the house, and try to live my own life? But where would I go, and what would I do? I've no training except nursing, and I should hate ordinary, peace-time nursing. And would it be fair to my family, who after all have spent a great deal of money on me? And each year I think, 'Next year is sure to be different,' but it isn't. It's exactly the same, or worse, and I'm a year older and have accomplished nothing. If it had been my lot to live in the country, I expect I would have hunted, or perhaps kept a lot of dogs, or looked after a garden. But as it is . . ."
She broke off. Captain Stevens descended on them to ask her to dance again, but she shook her head.
"I'm not a bit in the mood for it to-night. ​Look, the Winslow girls have just come. They're heavenly dancers."
Captain Stevens went, after a curious glance at Chip. Who was the fellow in the antiquated evening clothes, who was so quiet at dinner? A "oner" with the ladies, at any rate.
Judy turned once more to Chip.
"I've been perfectly beastly," she said. "But I feel better for it. And if I've destroyed a lot of your illusions, I'm sorry, but at least you know more of Judy Pendleton than you did."
"What you have told me," he said slowly, "has made me feel very sad, for your sake. I was so sure you were happy. But for my own sake . . . I don't know . . . I think it has made you seem less terribly remote. I felt before that we were in different hemispheres. Now . . . well, we at least inhabit the same imperfect planet. And it's a wonderful thing for me to know any one like you. To-night has been . . ."
"I'm so glad if you haven't minded it. I was afraid you'd hate it, or at least be bored."
"Bored?" He smiled.
"I suppose I must have made friends when I was young," he went on. "I remember imagining myself in love once or twice, and I was exactly like any other young man, no doubt. Then I went out to South Africa, and after the war I ​came home to find my mother dead. I was very ill for a long time, and I got out of the habit of seeing people. Then, when my health improved, I began to write. Articles; all sorts of things. Then I was sent out to India to join my regiment, and while I was there I began the book on religions, but for some years I hardly did more than make a beginning. But at last I got so interested in it that when I returned from India I left the army and went to live in a lonely cottage in Cornwall that belonged to my mother. I suppose I allowed the book to become an obsession, as Lady Gregory said, for I spent weeks—months sometimes—without seeing a soul except the village people, and Major Stroud now and then. Then the war came, and until 1919 I was in France. When I came home, I took the flat in Campden Hill. The night . . . the night of the accident, Major Stroud had dragged me out to dine at his club. I remember he had been lecturing me for being such a hermit."
"And rightly," said Judy.
"Still, I should have gone on being a hermit, if you hadn't come just when you did." He paused. "And yet there are people who deny that there's a benevolent Deity who orders our lives."
Captain Stevens might have said that and ​meant nothing by it, and if he had said it, Judy would have had a retort ready. But coming from Chip, it could not be treated so lightly. How much, she wondered, did he mean? Oh, he meant what he said, of course, but how much did he mean her to understand by it? And then she realized that had he meant to express more than an appreciation of her friendship, he could never have said it so easily.
"Let's hope your Deity will take an interest in the book," she said, and then was suddenly aware that she had spent the greater part of the evening talking to Chip. She looked about her. Helen and Gordon were dancing. Connie had boldly taken the floor with Noel a few minutes previously, but was now watching him dance with one of the Winslow girls, and Captain Stevens was dancing with the other. Millie was nowhere to be seen. Not for a moment must Connie be allowed to regret that she hadn't dined with Petrovitch.
"Come and help me amuse my aunt," said Judy. Then, with a sparkle in her eyes, "And if you can think of any pretty speeches to make her such as you have just made me, so much the better."