Tenterhooks.

by Ada Leverson.

CHAPTER I

A Verbal Invitation

Because Edith had not been feeling very well, that seemed no reason why she should be the centre of interest; and Bruce, with that jealousy of the privileges of the invalid and in that curious spirit of rivalry which his wife had so often observed, had started, with enterprise, an indisposition of his own, as if to divert public attention. While he was at Carlsbad he heard the news. Then he received a letter from Edith, speaking with deference and solicitude of Bruce's rheumatism, entreating him to do the cure thoroughly, and suggesting that they should call the little girl Matilda, after a rich and sainted--though still living--aunt of Edith's. It might be an advantage to the child's future (in every sense) to have a G.o.dmother so wealthy and so religious. It appeared from the detailed description that the new daughter had, as a matter of course (and at two days old), long golden hair, far below her waist, sweeping lashes and pencilled brows, a rosebud mouth, an intellectual forehead, chiselled features and a tall, elegant figure. She was a magnificent, regal-looking creature and was a superb beauty of the cla.s.sic type, and yet with it she was dainty and winsome. She had great talent for music. This, it appeared, was shown by the breadth between the eyes and the timbre of her voice.

Overwhelmed with joy at the advent of such a paragon, and horrified at Edith's choice of a name, Bruce had replied at once by wire, impulsively:

_'Certainly not Matilda I would rather she were called Aspasia.'_

Edith read this expression of feeling on a colourless telegraph form, and as she was, at Knightsbridge, unable to hear the ironical tone of the message she took it literally.

She criticised the name, but was easily persuaded by her mother-in-law to make no objection. The elder Mrs Ottley pointed out that it might have been very much worse.

'But it's not a pretty name,' objected Edith. 'If it wasn't to be Matilda, I should rather have called her something out of Maeterlinck--Ygraine, or Ysolyn--something like that.'

'Yes, dear, Mygraine's a nice name, too,' said Mrs Ottley, in her humouring way, 'and so is Vaselyn. But what does it really matter? I shouldn't hold out on a point like this. One gets used to a name. Let the poor child be called Asparagus if he wishes it, and let him feel he has got his own way.'

So the young girl was named Aspasia Matilda Ottley. It was characteristic of Edith that she kept to her own point, though not aggressively. When Bruce returned after his after-cure, it was too late to do anything but pretend he had meant it seriously.

Archie called his sister Dilly.

Archie had been rather hurt at the--as it seemed to him--unnecessary excitement about Dilly. Not that he was jealous in any way. It was rather that he was afraid it would spoil her to be made so much of at her age; make her, perhaps, egotistical and vain. But it was not Archie's way to show these fears openly. He did not weep loudly or throw things about as many boys might have done. His methods were more roundabout, more subtle. He gave hints and suggestions of his views that should have been understood by the intelligent. He said one morning with some indirectness:

'I had such a lovely dream last night, Mother.'

'Did you, pet? How sweet of you. What was it?'

'Oh, nothing much. It was all right. Very nice. It was a lovely dream.

I dreamt I was in heaven.'

'Really! How delightful. Who was there?'

This is always a woman's first question.

'Oh, you were there, of course. And father. Nurse, too. It was a lovely dream. Such a nice place.'

'Was Dilly there?'

'Dilly? Er--no--no--she wasn't. She was in the night nursery, with Satan.'

Sometimes Edith thought that her daughter's names were decidedly a failure--Aspasia by mistake, Matilda through obstinacy, and Dilly by accident. However the child herself was a success. She was four years old when the incident occurred about the Mitch.e.l.ls. The whole of this story turns eventually on the Mitch.e.l.ls.

The Ottleys lived in a concise white flat at Knightsbridge. Bruce's father had some time ago left him a good income on certain conditions; one was that he was not to leave the Foreign Office before he was fifty. One afternoon Edith was talking to the telephone in a voice of agonised entreaty that would have melted the hardest of hearts, but did not seem to have much effect on the Exchange, which, evidently, was not responsive to pathos that day.

'Oh! Exchange, _why_ are you ringing off? _Please_ try again.... Do I want any number? Yes, I do want any number, of course, or why should I ring up?... I want 6375 Gerrard.'

Here Archie interposed.

'Mother, can I have your long b.u.t.tonhook?'

'No, Archie, you can't just now, dear.... Go away Archie.... Yes, I said 6375 Gerrard. Only 6375 Gerrard!... Are you there? Oh, don't keep on asking me if I've got them!... No, they haven't answered.... Are you 6375?... Oh--wrong number--sorry.... 6375 Gerrard? Only six--are you there?... Not 6375 Gerrard?... Are you anyone else?... Oh, is it you, Vincy?... I want to tell you--'

'Mother, can I have your long b.u.t.tonhook?'

Here Bruce came in. Edith rang off. Archie disappeared.

'It's really rather wonderful, Edith, what that Sandow exerciser has done for me! You laughed at me at first, but I've improved marvellously.'

Bruce was walking about doing very mild gymnastics, and occasionally hitting himself on the left arm with the right fist.' Look at my muscle--look at it--and all in such a short time!'

'Wonderful!' said Edith.

'The reason I know what an extraordinary effect these few days have had on me is something I have just done which I couldn't have done before.

Of course I'm naturally a very powerful man, and only need a little--'

'What have you done?'

'Why--you know that great ridiculous old wooden chest that your awful Aunt Matilda sent you for your birthday--absurd present I call it--mere lumber.'

'Yes?'

'When it came I could barely push it from one side of the room to the other. Now I've lifted it from your room to the box-room. Quite easily. Pretty good, isn't it?'

'Yes, of course it's very good for you to do all these exercises; no doubt it's capital.... Er--you know I've had all the things taken out of the chest since you tried it before, don't you?'

'Things--what things? I didn't know there was anything in it.'

'Only a silver tea-service, and a couple of salvers,' said Edith, in a low voice....

...He calmed down fairly soon and said: 'Edith, I have some news for you. You know the Mitch.e.l.ls?'

'Do I know the _Mitch.e.l.ls_? Mitch.e.l.l, your hero in your office, that you're always being offended with--at _least_ I know the Mitch.e.l.ls by _name_. I ought to.'

'Well, what do you think they've done? They've asked us to dinner.'

'Have they? Fancy!'

'Yes, and what I thought was so particularly jolly of him was that it was a verbal invitation. Mitch.e.l.l said to me, just like this, 'Ottley, old chap, are you doing anything on Sunday evening?''

Here Archie came to the door and said, 'Mother, can I have your long b.u.t.tonhook?'

Edith shook her head and frowned.

''Ottley, old chap,'' continued Bruce, ''are you and your wife doing anything on Sunday? If not, I do wish you would waive ceremony and come and dine with us. Would Mrs Ottley excuse a verbal invitation, do you think?' I said, 'Well, Mitch.e.l.l, as a matter of fact I don't believe we have got anything on. Yes, old boy, we shall be delighted.' I accepted, you see. I accepted straight out. When you're treated in a friendly way, I always say why be unfriendly? And Mrs Mitch.e.l.l is a charming little woman--I'm sure you'd like her. It seems she's been dying to know you.'