In the present instance shop was suffragism. The Spatts had developed into supporters of militancy in a very curious way. Mrs. Spatt's sister, a widow, had been mixed up with the Union for years. One day she was fined forty shillings or a week's imprisonment for a political peccadillo involving a hatpin and a policeman. It was useless for her to remind the magistrate that she, like Mrs. Spatt, was the daughter of the celebrated statesman B----, who in the fifties had done so much for Britain. (Lo! The source of that mysterious confidence that always supported Mrs. Spatt!) The magistrate had no historic sense. She went to prison. At least she was on the way thither when Mr. Spatt paid the fine in spite of her. The same night Mr. Spatt wrote to his favourite evening paper to point out the despicable ingrat.i.tude of a country which would have imprisoned a daughter of the celebrated B----, and announced that henceforward he would be an active supporter of suffragism, which hitherto had interested him only academically. He was a wealthy man, and his money and his house and his pen were at the service of the Union--but always with discretion.

Audrey and Jane Foley had learnt all this privately from Mrs. Spatt on their arrival, after they had told such part of their tale as Jane Foley had deemed suitable, and they had further learnt that suffragism would not be a welcome topic at their table, partly on account of the servants and partly on account of Mr. Ziegler, whose opinions were quite clearly opposed to the movement, but whom they admired for true and rare culture. He was a cousin of German residents in First Avenue and, visiting them often, had been discovered by Mr. Spatt in the afternoon-tea train.

And just as the ices came to compete with the night wind, the postman arrived like a deliverer. The postman had to pa.s.s the dining-room _en route_ by the circuitous drive to the front door, and when dinner was afoot he would hand the letters to the parlourmaid, who would divide them into two portions, and, putting both on a salver, offer the salver first to Mrs.

and then to Mr. Spatt, while Mr. or Mrs. Spatt begged guests, if there were any, to excuse the quaint and indeed unusual custom, pardonable only on the plea that any tidings from London ought to be savoured instantly in such a place as Frinton.

After leaving his little pile untouched for some time, Mr. Spatt took advantage of the diversion caused by the brushing of the cloth and the distribution of finger-bowls to glance at the topmost letter, which was addressed in a woman's hand.

"She's coming!" he exclaimed, forgetting to apologise in the sudden excitement of news, "Good heavens!" He looked at his watch. "She's here. I heard the train several minutes ago! She must be here! The letter's been delayed."

"Who, Alroy?" demanded Mrs. Spatt earnestly. "Not that Miss Nickall you mentioned?"

"Yes, my dove." And then in a grave tone to the parlourmaid: "Give this letter to your mistress."

Mr. Spatt, cheered by the new opportunity for conversation, and in his eagerness abrogating all rules, explained how he had been in London on the previous day for a performance of Strauss's _Elektra_, and according to his custom had called at the offices of the Suffragette Union to see whether he could in any manner aid the cause. He had been told that a house in Paget Gardens lent to the Union had been basely withdrawn from service by its owner on account of some embroilment with the supreme police authorities at Scotland Yard, and that one of the inmates, a Miss Nickall, the poor young lady who had had her arm broken and was scarcely convalescent, had need of quietude and sea air. Mr. Spatt had instantly offered the hospitality of his home to Miss Nickall, whom he had seen in a cab and who was very sweet.

Miss Nickall had said that she must consult her companion. It now appeared that the companion was gone to the Midlands. This episode had occurred immediately before the receipt of the telegram from head-quarters asking for shelter for Miss Jane Foley and Mrs. Moncreiff.

Mr. Spatt's excitement had now communicated itself to everybody except Mr.

Ziegler and Siegfried Spatt. Jane Foley almost recovered her presence of mind, and Mrs. Spatt was extraordinarily interested to learn that Miss Nickall was an American painter who had lived long in Paris, and that Audrey had first made her acquaintance in Paris, and knew Paris well.

Audrey's motor-car had produced a considerable impression on Aurora Spatt, and this impression was deepened by the touch about Paris. After breathing mysterious orders into the ear of the parlourmaid Mrs. Spatt began to talk at large about music in Paris, and Mr. Spatt made comparisons between the princ.i.p.al opera houses in Europe. He proclaimed for the Scala at Milan; but Mr. Ziegler, who had methodically according to a fixed plan lived in all European capitals except Paris--whither he was soon going, said that Mr.

Spatt was quite wrong, and that Milan could not hold a candle to Munich.

Mrs. Spatt inquired whether Audrey had heard Strauss's _Elektra_ at the Paris Opera House. Audrey replied that Strauss's _Elektra_ had not been given at the Paris Opera House.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Spatt. "This prejudice against the greatest modern masterpieces because they are German is a very sad sign in Paris. I have noticed it for a long time."

Audrey, who most irrationally had begun to be annoyed by the blandness of Mr. Ziegler's smile, answered with a rival blandness:

"In Paris they do not reproach Strauss because he is German, but because he is vulgar."

Mrs. Spatt had a martyrised expression. In her heart she felt a sick trembling of her religious belief that _Elektra_ was the greatest opera ever composed. For Audrey had the prestige of Paris and of the automobile.

Mrs. Spatt, however, said not a word. Mr. Ziegler, on the other hand, after shuffling some seconds for utterance, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed with sublime anger:

"Vulgar!"

His rubicundity had increased and his blandness was dissolved. A terrible sequel might have occurred, had not the crunch of wheels on the drive been heard at that very instant. The huge, dim form of a coach drawn by a ghostly horse pa.s.sed along towards the front door, just below the diners.

Almost simultaneously the electric light above the front door was turned on, casting a glare across a section of the inchoate garden, where no flower grew save the dandelion. Everybody sprang up. Host and hostess, urged by hospitality, spun first into the drive, and came level with the vehicle precisely as the vehicle opened its invisible interior. Jane Foley and Audrey saw Miss Nickall emerge from it rather slowly and cautiously, with her white kind face and her arm all swathed in white.

"Well, Mr. Spatt," came the American benevolent voice of Nick. "How glad I am to see you. And this is Mrs. Spatt? Mrs. Spatt! Delighted. Your husband is the kindest, sweetest man, Mrs. Spatt, that I've met in years. It is perfectly sweet of you to have me. I shouldn't have inflicted myself on you--no, I shouldn't--only you know we have to obey orders. I was told to come here, and here I've come, with a glad heart."

Audrey was touched by the sight and voice of grey-haired Nick, with her trick of seeing nothing but the best in everybody, transforming everybody into saints, angels, and geniuses. Her smiles and her tones were irresistible. They were like the wand of some magical princess come to break a sinister thrall. They nearly humanised the gaunt parlourmaid, who stood grimly and primly waiting until these tedious sentimental preliminaries should cease from interfering with her duties in regard to the luggage.

"We have friends of yours here, Miss Nickall," simpered Mrs. Spatt, after she had given a welcome. She had seen Jane Foley and Audrey standing expectant just behind Mr. Spatt, and outside the field of the electric beam.

Nick glanced round, hesitated, and then with a sudden change of all her features rushed at the girls regardless of her arm. Her joy was enchanting.

"I was afraid--I was afraid----" she murmured as she kissed them. Her eyes softly glistened.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, after a moment. "And I _have_ got a surprise for you!

I have just! You may say it's some surprise." She turned towards the cab.

"Musa, now do come out of that wagon."

And from the blackness of the cab's interior gingerly stepped Musa, holding a violin case in his hand.

"Mrs. Spatt," said Nick. "Let me introduce Mr. Musa. Mr. Musa is perhaps the greatest violinist in Paris--or in Europe. Very old friend of ours. He came over to London unexpectedly just as I was starting for Liverpool Street station this afternoon. So I did the only thing I could do. I couldn't leave him there--I brought him along, and we want Mr. Spatt to recommend us an hotel in Frinton for him." And while Musa was shyly in his imperfect English greeting Mr. and Mrs. Spatt, she whispered to Audrey: "You don't know. You'd never guess. A big concert agent in Paris has taken him up at last. He's going to play at a lot of concerts, and they actually paid him two thousand five hundred francs in advance. Isn't it a perfect dream?"

Audrey, who had seen Musa's trustful glance at Nick as he descended from the cab, was suddenly aware of a fierce pang of hate for the benignant Nick, and a wave of fury against Musa. The thing was very disconcerting.

After self-conscious greetings, Musa almost dragged Audrey away from the others.

"It's you I came to London to see," he muttered in an unusual voice.

CHAPTER XXV

THE MUTE

It was upon this evening that Audrey began alarmingly to develop the quality of being incomprehensible--even to herself. Like most young women and men, she had been convinced from an early age that she was mysteriously unlike all other created beings, and--again like most young men and women--she could find, in the secrecy of her own heart, plenty of proof of a unique strangeness. But now her unreason became formidable. There she sat with her striking forehead and her quite unimportant nose, in the large austere drawing-room of the Spatts, which was so pervaded by artistic chintz that the slightest movement in it produced a crackle--and wondered why she was so much queerer than other girls could possibly be.

Neither the crackling of chintz nor the aspect of the faces in the drawing-room was conducive to clear psychological a.n.a.lysis. Mr. Ziegler, with a gla.s.s of Pilsener by his side on a small table and a cigar in his richly jewelled hand, reposed with crossed legs in an easy chair. He had utterly recovered from the momentary irritation caused by Audrey's attack on Strauss, and his perfect beaming satisfaction with himself made a spectacle which would have distracted an Indian saint from the contemplation of eternity and nothingness. Mr. and Mrs. Spatt, seated as far as was convenient from one another on a long sofa, their emaciated bodies very upright and alert, gazed with intense expectation at Musa. Musa stood in the middle of the room, tuning his violin with little tw.a.n.gs and listening to the tw.a.n.gs as to a secret message.

Miss Nickall, being an invalid, had excusably gone to bed, and Jane Foley, sharer of her bedroom, had followed. The happy relief on Jane's face as she said good night to her hosts had testified to the severity of the ordeal of hospitality through which she had so heroically pa.s.sed. She might have been going out of prison instead of going out of the most intellectual drawing-room in Frinton.

Audrey, too, would have liked to retire, for automobiles and sensations had exhausted her; but just at this point her unreason had begun to operate.

She would not leave Musa alone, because Miss Nickall was leaving him alone.

Yet she did not feel at all benevolent towards Musa. She was angry with him for having quitted Paris. She was angry with him for having said to her, in such a peculiar tone: "It's you I came to London to see." She was angry with him for not having found an opportunity, during the picnic meal provided for the two new-comers after the regular dinner, to explain why he had come to London to see her. She was angry with him for that dark hostility which he had at once displayed towards Mr. Ziegler, though she herself hated the innocent Mr. Ziegler with the ferocity of a woman of the Revolution. And further, she was glad, ridiculously glad, that Musa had come to London to see her. Lastly she was aware of a most irrational objection to the manner in which Miss Nickall and Musa said good night to one another, and the obvious fact that Musa in less than an hour had reached terms of familiarity with Jane Foley.

She thought:

"I haven't the faintest idea why he has given up his practising in Paris to come to see me. But if it is what I feel sure it is, there will be trouble.... Why do I stay in this ghastly drawing-room? I am dying to go to sleep, and I simply detest everybody in the room. I detest Musa more than all, because as usual he has been acting like a child.... Why can't you smile at him, Audrey Moze? Why frown and pretend you're cross when you know you aren't, Audrey Moze? ... I am cross, and he shall suffer. Was this a time to leave his practising--and the concerts soon coming on? I positively prefer this Ziegler man to him. Yes, I do." So ran her reflections, and they annoyed her.

"What would you wish me to play?" asked Musa, when he had definitely finished tw.a.n.ging. Audrey noticed that his English accent was getting a little less French. She had to admit that, though his appearance was extravagantly un-British, it was distinguished. The immensity of his black silk cravat made the black cravat of Mr. Spatt seem like a bootlace round his thin neck.

"Whatever you like, Mr. Musa," replied Aurora Spatt. "_Please!_"

And as a fact the excellent woman, majestic now in spite of her red nose and her excessive thinness, did not care what Musa played. He had merely to play. She had decided for herself, from the conversation, that he was a very celebrated performer, and she had ascertained, by direct questioning, that he had never performed in England. She was determined to be able to say to all comers till death took her that "Musa--the great Musa, you know--first played in England in my own humble drawing-room." The thing itself was actually about to occur; nothing could stop it from occurring; and the thought of the immediate realisation of her desire and ambition gave Mrs. Spatt greater and more real pleasure than she had had for years; it even fortified her against the possible resentment of her cherished Mr.

Ziegler.

"French music--would you wish?" Musa suggested.

"Is there any French music? That is to say, of artistic importance?" asked Mr. Ziegler calmly. "I have never heard of it."

He was not consciously being rude. Nor was he trying to be funny. His question implied an honest belief. His a.s.sertion was sincere. He glanced, blinking slightly, round the room, with a self-confidence that was either terrible or pathetic, according to the degree of your own self-confidence.

Audrey said to herself.

"I'm glad this isn't my drawing-room." And she was almost frightened by the thought that that skull opposite to her was absolutely impenetrable, and that it would go down to the grave unpierced with all its collection of ideas intact and braggart.