TACT

Hubert at lunch made no reference whatever either to their own drawn battle or to that other, of which the sounds, she feared, might easily have reached him.

His one remark, indeed, beyond the usual polite abstractions for Lily's benefit, was "Ruth will be here at four o'clock. I want to see her before tea."

"Very well," was her submissive answer.

But this life of a housekeeper--how could she endure it after what had been? Hubert's only comments were aroused by letters, which his humorous friends still continued to send, quizzing him about his author-wife or sometimes facetiously alluding to some of the peculiarities of down-trodden Zoe's husband. "This I owe to you," he would say, throwing it across; or, "_You'll_ enjoy this better," if a press-cutting contained nothing more pleasing to his vanity than a reference to himself as the notorious Husband.

Helena dreaded anything of this sort in front of his sister. She dreaded her visit entirely and hoped that it would not be long. Who could tell whether Ruth were not to be installed as her perpetual guardian, to watch over the wicked child? If so--but why make plans until things happened? The present was enough, and her chief wisdom lay in making the situation seem, to a third party, as easy as she could. She would _force_ Hugh to speak.

There was a little fun in this idea, formed during lunch: and glancing across at his sullen face, with the too active mouth now tightly enough pressed, she only just restrained a laugh. It would have been the first during these ghastly and interminable meals.

So soon as he had got up, with his horribly polite; "Finished?" and the usual sigh, she ran almost lightly to the baize-door and called Lily.

"Lily," she asked, trying to compromise between an obvious whisper and a voice too audible, "were there any press-cuttings this morning?"

"Yes, mum," answered the always respectful conspirator.

"You kept them, I hope?"

"Oh _yes_, mum,"--almost hurt.

"Well, Lily," and she hesitated, the coward of Conscience; "I think I'll have them now and not to-night. Miss Brett will be here then."

Lily retreated and came back with the small envelope. Her eyes glistened sympathetically in the half-darkness. Perhaps she guessed--but she knew her own favourite among the Bretts.

Helena with that delicious thrill which makes crime so popular a hobby among those unable to afford sport or collecting, went into the drawing-room and boldly tore open the envelope addressed to "Hubert Brett, Esq." She did not want unpleasantness in front of Ruth.

She spread the cutting out, to read. He had not published a book now for months, so it was certain to refer to hers.

It did.

It was from _People And Paragraphs_, (which its admirers call by its initials,) and it ran, in the crisp, breezy, style which makes that sheet so popular:

"TURNING THE TABLES.

"Many a woman finds herself socially snuffed out by being wedded to a luminary: she is Mr. Dash Blank's wife _et voila tout_. There have been cases exactly opposite; but hist! They say the lady herself is now touchy on the point. It cannot often have happened, however, that the tables have been turned so neatly as in the case of the Hubert Bretts. As a novelist, he has for a decade of years formed one of the small and essentially select _coterie_ that largely exists, like the ladies who lived on each other's washing, by patting one another's backs. His reputation has been large, his notices extremely good; but neither adjective would fit his sales. Any librarian (librarians, _en pa.s.sant_, are interesting men) could throw an odd light upon the curious relations between

REVIEWS AND ROYALTIES

"Now mark the sequel. Pretty little Mrs. Hubert, bored with her husband's neglect, indites a diary, which a keen-sighted publisher gives to the world. Hey presto! as dear old 'Bertie' Zoda used to say at the never-to-be-forgotten Pen-Pushers' Sat.u.r.day nights (or were they Sunday mornings? Tush!), in a moment all is changed. She sells fifty copies to her husband's one; the book is in everybody's hands and mouth; the next is eagerly awaited--and poor Hubert finds himself, after all these years of manly efforts, as nothing more glorious than Zoe Brett's husband. Rough luck, Bertie, very!"

With a feeling of almost physical sickness Helena realised how narrow had been the escape. If he had read that, with his sister there----!

She tore it viciously across and across, until no hand could ever piece it back to its vile self again. She felt the very action a relief.

In future, so long at any rate as Ruth was with them, she would open and destroy all cuttings. They could refer to nothing but her book.

She went along and told the still impa.s.sive Lily to keep them all for her. She waited, this done, for Ruth Brett's arrival with far more complacency. At any rate her eyes weren't red....

It is typical of Hubert Brett's peculiar temperament that he had never thought of Ruth--at any rate as guest--until he needed her. He had marked her birthday down in his small pocket-diary, so soon as he bought it each year, and never failed to send a cheery note, however busy; and the same at Christmas. Also, when she had written letters filled with endless details about people he had never met and clearly should dislike, even if he had not read them all, he left no single one unanswered. But for the rest, she had her little cottage on the Norfolk coast and he his little home; so why should either trouble with the other? Many people sacrificed their life to relatives!

When, however, Helena grew so defiant over this affair which had been her own fault entirely, he thought at once of Ruth. She had been always full of doctrines of submission--almost maddeningly so; _she_ saw that women who lived with men who were busy should be considerate, unselfish. She would not, he knew, approve of Helena's idea that she should be an author too, neglect her wifely duties and become a rival to himself. Ruth had been tiresome, certainly, in her persistent martyrdom, but she had never done a thing like that.

As for Ruth Brett herself, she did not question her brother's command.

There is a lot in habit; besides, she happened to be fond of him. She took the train, directly she received his wire, and came. She hoped that it was nothing serious. He might have told her--but he wouldn't think....

She had met Helena so few times; Hubert had kept them apart in the old days; but now, so soon as the young wife stepped out into the hall, she flung herself upon her and cried, "What is it? Is he ill? What has happened? Quick!"

Helena was overwhelmed. She had rehea.r.s.ed so many meetings--always with one idea: to seem at ease in an united home--and none of them of course was right.

"Oh no, he's all right," she said in confusion. How could she explain?

"He wants to see you first. In there!" And the bewildered Ruth, scarce entered, still with her umbrella, was thrust at once towards another door; leaving Helena with the reflection that after all things had not turned out too badly, even though all the rehearsals had been absolutely useless.

Hubert jumped up from his table with a cry of welcome.

"But Ruth!" he said, holding her by both arms, "what's happened? I should not have known you." He did not realise the difference which changed environment can make in the chameleon, Woman.

"Well, it's three years," she explained.

"But you look ten years younger!" he cried, laughing. Just for a moment he forgot his troubles. It was incredible, this new Ruth with firm cheeks and bright colour; gayer even of costume. He could not understand--and he was little used to that. "I know!" he said; and then accusingly; "Ruth, you're in love."

At once a little of the old-time pathos crept into her face.

"No," she replied, "I think I've left all that too late."

"What is it, then?" persisted he, manlike.

"It's Norfolk," she said. Not for a million pounds would she have told him it was Freedom.... "Tell me, Hugh," she added quickly, "what has happened? Why did you wire for me? Everything seems quite all right!"

"Everything is utterly all wrong," answered Hubert, finding some consolation in a saying so tremendous; "it couldn't possibly be worse,"

and he poured the whole story forth with the acc.u.mulated pa.s.sion of a week's not easy silence. How many times he had rehea.r.s.ed his grievance to himself--when he felt any danger of relenting!

She listened to the end, attentively, in silence, and as she listened, it occurred to her too that these three years had wrought a miracle of change in her. All this, that he was hurling forth indignantly, seemed to her now so tragically small. She realised the pathos of a life in which--as with her, in the days gone by--one sense of wrong after another would always wreck his happiness and wreck the life of any one he loved. It had been her; now it was Helena; there always would be, must be, a victim to his tragical self-centred brooding. And he would not be happy, ever. He would stand alone upon the dignity of his achievement; alone, he would distress himself that n.o.body considered his work, him; alone, upon his deathbed, he would understand too late that he had never lived at all.

She looked at him with pity as he ended, the tempest lulled by its own blown-out fury.

"Well," he said presently, as she was silent.

"I can't understand," Ruth answered slowly.

"Can't understand?"

"I haven't read the book," she said, "our village library does not believe in modern fiction, but--well, what I don't understand is this.

You say _she_ swears the husband wasn't meant for you. Well, then, from what you tell me of his character in the book--weak, selfish, bloated with conceit, a little man who thinks he's great, full of absurd cranks about 'atmosphere' and so on, cruel to his wife--I wonder _you_ can ever pretend, or care to pretend to think that it was meant for you! You surely don't think three years have made you like _that_?" and she gave a laugh as at some absolute absurdity, confident in her own knowledge of how splendid a man he had always been.

He looked up swiftly. He suspected her. But she did not flinch, for this was a new Ruth indeed. She looked straight at him--puzzled innocent surprise--and it was his gaze that fell after all. He knew what she meant--and she knew also that he knew.