The Garden of Mystery

— II —

— II —IN MY LADY’S CHAMBER

Mrs. Thurston was in the best of tempers. She generally was, even when alone, which is rather rarer than some think. Persons who are notorious for their sunny disposition in public are frequently remarkable for something quite different when there is no one there but themselves and the mask comes off. But it was characteristic of Mrs. Thurston that she was apt to be merrier in private than when other persons were present, if the thing were possible. On the present occasion something seemed to be tickling her immensely.

“To think,” she exclaimed aloud, as if someone else had been there to hear, “that all this is mine, and it might so easily have been hers. Mine! mine! all mine! It really is a most magnificent jest – for me!” She laughed, daintily, musically, the sound coming from her pretty throat as sweetly as if it were the song of some light-hearted bird. “And how long ago is it since I was a governess on thirty pounds a year? It seems ages, but in reality it’s only weeks. Dear me, what vicissitudes I have known in my short life!” She sighed – a sigh which did not suggest distress, for laughter was dancing in her eyes. “What a room I had at Mrs. Welby’s – quite a respectable room for a governess creature, I’ll admit – but, still, compared to this, which is something like a room—”

She sighed again, this time a sigh of sheer content. As she observed, it was something like a room the one in which she was; as charming an apartment as even the soul of a beauty-loving woman could very well desire. A cunning mixture of the old and the new. Shaded electric lights looked down on furniture which would have delighted the connoisseur’s heart, and yet which was all that one could wish in the way of comfort. The windows were draped with costly hangings. The half-dozen water-colours which hung against the daintily coloured walls were delights to the eye. Costly knick-knacks were scattered here and there, with a profusion which spoke not only of an artistic sense, but also of a well-filled purse. Indeed, every article which the room contained was a thing both of beauty and of price. And the most beautiful thing in it was the lady who owned it all. Very charming it was to note the delight which came to her from the mere joy of possession, as, like a child, she passed from treasure to treasure, admiring, fondling each in turn.

“Mine! mine! all mine! The most wonderful part of it all is that Alan, of all people in the world, should have such rooms, for the bedroom’s almost more exquisite than this, and the drawing-room’s a dream. When I first met Alan I never should have guessed him to be the owner of such a house as this. Money, yes, Alan emanates money; but taste – dear Alan’s taste is excellent – or I shouldn’t be here; but it’s not equal to this. Dear, dear Alan.” Again the musical laughter which, in such a connection, one hardly knew how to take. “It only shows that dear Alan is cleverer than one would think, or he would never have guessed that, in some directions, he wasn’t clever. This Sir Philip Ford must be by way of being a curiosity. That Alan thinks him a tin god goes for nothing; he has a good many tin gods, has Alan, and he has no idea how tinny some of them are. The dear, dear boy! Fancy Alan asking him to furnish his house for him, and fancy Sir Philip doing it! ‘I asked him,’ says Alan, ‘to make of it a perfect house for a perfect woman, and you’ll find he’s done it.’ For once in his life Alan was right – Sir Philip has done it. The man must be a genius. I’ve seen some fine houses in one way or another, but I do believe that this is the most perfect of them all. And it’s mine! mine! all mine!” Once more the laughter, which this time seemed more in place.

“The point of the joke is that I am persuaded that she was the perfect woman for whom it was all designed; that it was she whom Alan had in his mind’s eye when he set Sir Philip to work. Poor dear, ill-treated young woman! I could see it in her face as she entered the room. Of course she never would have come if it had not been for her mamma. What an affliction mamma must be. I have found her a trial on those occasions on which I have been compelled to have one; there are times when a lone lorn maiden must have a female parent; but a permanent mamma – how thankful I ought to be when I consider that I always have been saved from that!”

The little lady, stretching herself full length upon a couch, passed from the consideration of how delightful it was to be without a mother, to admiration of the small pair of red shoes which peeped from under the hem of her skirt.

“What pretty feet I have – really pretty; because mine are feet which don’t owe their beauty to a shoemaker. And that’s the secret of it all – I am so pretty altogether. It makes it so delightful. In a female creature beauty and brains are the two things most to be desired; and since I have them both how thankful I ought to be. Men may pose as they please, but they find it impossible to be hard on a really pretty and clever girl, while the average masculine will forgive her anything. He likes to be twisted round a pretty woman’s pretty fingers. Of course there are exceptions; it is they who give to life its savour. I love a man who can be a brute to me if only because it supplies me with such a very adequate reason why I should be a brute to him. Oh, dear, how sick I should get of always honey!”

There was a tap on the door. A maid entering advanced towards her with an envelope upon a salver.

“The person who brought it, madam, is waiting for an answer.”

Mrs. Thurston skimmed the brief note which the envelope contained. She looked up with a smile.

“Go into the other room and wait. I’ll have an answer ready in a minute; then I’ll ring.”

The maid retired. The little lady re-read the note, this time more carefully, yet still with smiling face.

“There is one of the brutes – I wondered how long it would be before he appeared upon the scene. Funny boy! he writes as if it were his to command and mine to obey. When will men learn?”

Seating herself at a writing-table, which was so exquisitely fashioned that it seemed almost desecration to use it for its avowed purpose, scribbling a few hasty lines, she crammed the sheet of paper on which they had been written into an envelope, then hesitated.

“Shall I put any name outside? Better not.” Touching a bell which was in front of her she handed the blank envelope to the maid. “Give that to the person who is waiting.”

Alone again, she glanced at the clock on the mantel.

“I’ve nearly half an hour in which to compose my mind, and prepare myself – for the very worst. So here goes for preparation.”

Moving to the piano, she began to sing a song which had recently been the rage in Paris; but which was hardly the sort of song one might expect that a young married woman would sing even in the solitude of her own chamber.