Love's Shadow by Ada Leverson - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXVII

Miss Wrenner

One day Bruce came into the flat much more briskly than usual. There was a certain subdued satisfaction in his air that Edith was glad to see. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and said—

'Edith, you know how strongly I disapprove of the modern fashion of husbands and wives each going their own way—don't you?'

'Where are you thinking of going, dear?'

'Who said I was thinking of going anywhere?'

'No-one. But it's obvious, or you wouldn't have begun like that.'

'Why? What did you think I was going to say next?'

'Of course, you were going to say, after that sentence about "you know how strongly I disapprove," etc., something like, "But, of course, there are exceptions to every rule, and in this particular instance I really think that I had better," and so on. Weren't you?'

'Odd. Very odd you should get it into your head that I should have any idea of leaving you. Is that why you're looking so cheerful—laughing so much?'

'Am I laughing? I thought I was only smiling.'

'I don't think it's a kind thing to smile at the idea of my going away. However, I'm sorry to disappoint you'—Bruce spoke rather bitterly—'very sorry indeed, for I see what a blow it will be to you. But, as a matter of fact, I had not intention whatever of leaving you at all, except, perhaps, for a few hours at a time. However, of course, if you wish it very much I might arrange to make it longer. Or even to remain away altogether, if you prefer it.'

'Oh, Bruce, don't talk such nonsense! You know I wish nothing of the kind. What's this about a few hours at a time?'

'Naturally,' Bruce said, getting up and looking in the glass; 'naturally, when one has an invitation like this—oh, I admit it's a compliment—I quite admit that—one doesn't want to decline it at once without thinking it over. Think how absurd I should appear to a man like that, writing to say that my wife can't possibly spare me for a couple of hours two or three times a week!'

'A man like what? Who is this mysterious man who wants you for two or three hours two or three times a week?'

'My dear, it can't be done without it; and though, of course, it is rather a nuisance, I daresay in a way it won't be bad fun. You shall help me, dear, and I'm sure I shall be able to arrange for you to see the performance. Yes! you've guessed it; I thought you would. I've been asked to play in some amateur theatricals that are being got up by Mitchell of the F O in aid of the 'Society for the Suppression of Numismatics', or something—I can't think why he chose me, of all people!'

'I wonder.'

'I don't see anything to wonder about. Perhaps he thought I'd do it well. Possibly he supposed I had talent. He may have observed, in the course of our acquaintance, that I was threatened with intelligence! Or again, of course, they want for theatricals a fellow of decent appearance.'

'Ah, yes; of course they do.'

'It would be very absurd for the heroine of the play to be madly in love with a chap who turned up looking like, God knows what! Not that I mean for a moment to imply that I'm particularly good-looking, Edith—I'm not such a fool as that. But—well, naturally, it's always an advantage in playing the part of a jeune premier not to be quite bald and to go in decently at the waist, and to—Fancy, Miss Wrenner didn't know I was a married man!'

'Miss Wrenner! Who's Miss Wrenner?'

'Why she—Don't you know who Miss Wrenner is?'

'No.'

'Oh, Miss Wrenner's that girl who—a friend of the Mitchells; you know.'

'I don't know. Miss Wrenner is quite new to me. So are the Mitchells.
 What is she like?'
 

'Like!' exclaimed Bruce. 'You ask me what she's like! Why, she isn't like anything. She's just Miss Wrenner—the well-known Miss Wrenner, who's so celebrated as an amateur actress. Why, she was going to play last Christmas at Raynham, only after all the performance never came off.'

'Is Miss Wrenner pretty?'

'Pretty? How do you mean?'

'What colour is her hair?'

'Well, I—I—I didn't notice, particularly.'

'Is she dark or fair? You must know, Bruce!'

'Well, I should say she was a little darker than you—not a great deal.
 But I'm not quite certain. Just fancy her not thinking I was married!'
 

'Did you tell her?'

'Tell her! Of course I didn't tell her. Do you suppose a girl like Miss Wrenner's got nothing to do but to listen to my autobiography? Do you imagine she collects marriage certificates? Do you think she makes a hobby of the census?'

'Oh! then you didn't tell her?'

'Yes, I did. Why should I palm myself off as a gay bachelor when I'm nothing of the sort?'

'When did you tell her, Bruce?'

'Why, I haven't told her yet—at least, not personally. What happened really was this: Mitchell said to me, "Miss Wrenner will be surprised to hear you're a married man," or something like that.'

'Where did all this happen?'

'At the office. Where else do I ever see Mitchell?'

'Then does Miss Wrenner come to the office?'

Bruce stared at her in silent pity.

'Miss Wrenner! At the office! Why you must be wool-gathering! Women are not allowed at the F O. Surely you know that, dear?'

'Well, then, where did you meet Miss Wrenner?'

'Miss Wrenner? Why do you ask?'

'Simply because I want to know.'

'Oh! Good heavens! What does it matter where I met Miss Wrenner?'

'You're right, Bruce; it doesn't really matter a bit. I suppose you've forgotten.'

'No; I haven't forgotten. I suppose I shall meet Miss Wrenner at the first rehearsal next week—at the Mitchells.'

'Was it there you met her before?'

'How could it be? I have never been to the Mitchells.'

'As a matter of fact, you've never seen Miss Wrenner?'

'Did I say I had? I didn't mean to. What I intended to convey was, not that I had seen Miss Wrenner, but that Mitchell said Miss Wrenner would be surprised to hear I was married.'

'Funny he should say that—very curious it should occur to him to picture Miss Wrenner's astonishment at the marriage of a man she didn't know, and had never seen.'

'No—no—no; that wasn't it, dear; you've got the whole thing wrong—you've got hold of the wrong end of the stick. He—Mitchell, you know—mentioned to me the names of the people who were going to be asked to act, and among them, Miss Wrenner's name cropped up—I think he said Miss Wrenner was going to be asked to play the heroine if they could get her—no—I'm wrong, it was that she had asked to play the heroine, and that they meant to get out of it if they could. So, then, I said, wouldn't she be surprised at having to play the principal part with a married man.'

'I see. You said it, not Mitchell. Then are you playing the hero?'

'Good gracious! no—of course not. Is it likely that Mitchell, who's mad on acting and is getting up the whole thing himself, is jolly well going to let me play the principal part? Is it human nature? Of course it isn't. You can't expect it. I never said Mitchell was not human—did I?'

'What is your part, dear?'

'They're going to send it to me tomorrow—typewritten. It's not a long part, and not very important, apparently; but Mitchell says there's a lot to be got out of it by a good actor; sometimes one of these comparatively small parts will make the hit of the evening.’

'What sort of part is it?'

'Oh, no particular sort. I don't come on until the second act. As I told you, one of the chief points is to have a good appearance—look a gentleman; that sort of thing.'

'Well?'

'I come on in the second act, dressed as a mandarin.'

'A mandarin! Then you play the part of a Chinaman?'

'No, I don't. It's at the ball. In the second act, there's a ball on the stage—for the hero's coming of age—and I have to be a mandarin.'

'Is the ball given at the Chinese Embassy?'

'No; at the hero's country house. Didn't I tell you—it's a fancy ball!'

'Oh, I see! Then I shouldn't have thought it would have mattered so very much about whether you're good-looking or not. And Miss Wrenner—how will she be dressed at the fancy ball?'

'Miss Wrenner? Oh! Didn't I tell you—Miss Wrenner isn't going to act—they've got someone else instead.'