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  When she left her mother Adelaide put on her hat and went out for a walk. Except for the short drive to the church, it was the first time she had been outside the garden; she did not know Farnham at all. The high ground beside the castle, however, was a natural objective; Adelaide climbed a slanting path and was walking on without any sense of direction when a broad shadow overtook her own and Mr. Vaneck came up beside her.

  “May I join you?”

  “Do,” said Adelaide.

  “I see you are taking my advice.”

  “Am I? Oh, of course. It’s very pretty up here.”

  “There’s a fair view. This avenue”—they were approaching a double row of trees—“is said to have been planted by one of the old bishops.”

  They entered it. The evening was very fine and still. Below, on the easier slopes, quite a number of strollers were taking the air, but Adelaide and Mr. Vaneck had the summit to themselves. He said abruptly:—

  “You know, you’re very unexpected.”

  Adelaide smiled.

  “It was kind of you to have a preconceived idea of me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re so obviously the great man of the neighbourhood.”

  “Am I so insufferably pompous?”

  “Oh, no. But you live in the great house, you do all the right things, you’re very important. Everybody in Farnham is pleased by your notice. I assure you that we were very pleased that you came to the funeral.…”

  “Do you wonder I call you unexpected?”

  “But I mean it!” protested Adelaide. “Isn’t it natural, in a place like this, that one should be pleased by the attention of an important neighbour?”

  Mr. Vaneck considered her thoughtfully.

  “You say ‘a place like this’ as though it were strange to you.”

  “So it is. I’ve never lived in the country.”

  “In fact, you give me the impression of a visiting anthropologist. You observe. And you’re not, as you suggest, observing the beauties of nature.”

  Adelaide felt a slight alarm. Unlike her mother, unlike Treff, Mr. Vaneck evidently had a taste for probing beneath appearances. Raising her eyes in a glance as girlish as she could make it, she said ingenuously:—

  “Mamma always used to scold me for absent-mindedness; she said it made me seem critical and conceited. I’m afraid I’ve never grown out of it.”

  He looked at her again, more thoughtfully still. They reached the end of the avenue, where a fallen trunk lay slantwise across the path; to go farther was not impossible, but just difficult enough to halt so desultory a promenade. Both paused, Adelaide gazing at the view (which here was rather inferior) and waiting for Mr. Vaneck to take up the conversation. His interest in her was flattering; though she mocked a little, she could not help being impressed. He was, in his appearance, his manners, his possessions, an impressive man.

  A thought entered her mind, distinct and dispassionate: If I had come here to live, I should probably have married him.

  “How long are you staying in Farnham?” asked Mr. Vaneck.

  “I go to-morrow.”

  “So soon! But of course you have other ties.”

  “Treff will take Mamma to Brighton. We think she needs the change.”

  “You yourself, I believe, have come from town?”

  Adelaide smiled again. The vision of Mr. Vaneck paying a call in Britannia Mews was diverting.

  “I am just going away, too …”

  Mr. Vaneck bowed. They turned and began to retrace their steps. The air was so pleasant, the evening light so golden, that Adelaide felt reluctant to reach the avenue’s end. She wondered what her companion’s reaction would be if she were to tell him the plain truth about Henry, about Gilbert; she thought he would take it calmly enough; she thought that his own past might hold just as incongruous matter. And considering herself through Mr. Vaneck’s eyes, Adelaide suddenly perceived a circumstance which she usually overlooked: she was not, in fact, married.

  In the eyes of the world and the law, she was perfectly free to marry again.

  At this moment chance brought them to a gap in one side of the avenue, through which could be seen the roofs and gardens of Bishop’s Lodge. It lay not far below them, halfway up the hill: a gentleman’s residence, almost a gentleman’s seat, complete and handsome in all its parts, from that viewpoint most advantageously displayed. Adelaide could not withhold her admiration; nor could she fail to realize all that the ownership of such a property implied. With Bishop’s Lodge went wealth, position, the gratification of taste, the exercise of power—and not the mere appearance of these desirables, but the reality.

  “It’s a pleasant place,” said Mr. Vaneck, nodding towards his house as to a friend. “I’m always glad to get back to it.”

  “You travel a great deal?”

  “No, but I have a fondness for Persia.”

  Of course, thought Adelaide; there would be that too; and he is probably an authority on some Persian poet. What an interesting man! And then she smiled, for none of this really concerned her. She had lost herself for a minute like a girl day-dreaming over a romantic novel. But it was only a tale, nothing to do with real life. Her real life was with Gilbert, in Britannia Mews; and suddenly wanting him with all her heart, she wanted nothing more.

  She began to walk faster; and Mr. Vaneck, falling into step, did not speak again till he bade her good-bye.

  3

  Adelaide left the next day. The parting was decently affectionate, but on both sides felt to be final. Treff promised to let her know the Culver plans, Adelaide approved them in advance; her mother vaguely enquired whether there were any pieces of furniture she wanted from Platt’s End, and Adelaide politely refused the offer. In the last few minutes, however, while they waited for the cab, Mrs. Culver said unexpectedly:—

  “Adelaide, there’s something I want you to do for me.” She drew a deep breath. “Your father had a sister, Mrs. Burnett. You never knew her—”

  “Yes, I did,” said Adelaide. “You took me to call.”

  Mrs. Culver frowned.

  “Did I? Well, I’ve neither seen nor heard of her since, and I can’t say I wish to. But she is Papa’s sister, and she should be told.” Mrs. Culver paused again. “I didn’t write to her, I had too much to think of; there was the notice in The Times, I thought if she were in England she’d see it. But now it’s on my mind. I want you to go to Chesterfield Street, and if she’s still there just tell her, simply and quietly, and explain I’m too ill to see anyone.”

  Adelaide readily promised, for she was glad to be of use at last; but at the same time, and though Belle Burnett was one of the most fascinating memories of her childhood, the errand now appeared to her as an extension of her duty at Platt’s End, something she wished to clear up and be finished with before returning to Gilbert; and for this reason she went straight from Waterloo to Chesterfield Street, on her way home.

  CHAPTER IX

  1

  Mrs. Culver had thought the number was 5 or 7; Adelaide found herself remembering quite clearly that the windows were to the left of the door, and went unhesitatingly to Number 6. No page, but a parlour-maid, opened to her; Mrs. Burnett still lived there, and to the name “Adelaide Culver” was At Home. Adelaide was shown into the remembered drawing-room; it looked just the same, except that there were more ornaments—more vases, more figurines, more snuff-boxes, more fans: the trophies of a successful and acquisitive career covered every available inch of space, the forget-me-not monkeys on the mantelpiece rose like rocks from a precious shingle of porcelain and ivory and jade and silver. Adelaide instinctively looked round for the cigar-box; and there it was! In the same place, with the same picture glowing from the lid.…

  On a wave of perfume, with a rustle of silk, Belle Burnett swam into the room; for the first time Adelaide realized that over eighteen years had passed since their last meeting. Mrs. Burnett’s hair was still auburn—more than auburn; her cheeks w
ere still bright, but with the brightness of painted china. Only beneath the eyes lay shadows like the bruise on a magnolia petal, the white throat was withered, the pretty hands grown bony. She must be, thought Adelaide, about fifty-five—but her dress was so youthful that she had succeeded in making herself look much older.

  “My niece!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnett dramatically. “Great heavens! Have you brought your husband?”

  “No,” said Adelaide. “I’ve just come from Farnham—from Mamma’s.”

  Mrs. Burnett brushed Farnham and Mamma aside in a gesture Adelaide remembered.

  “But you are married, are you not? And to a penniless artist? My dear, I felt such a sympathy for you! But I never interfere with Culvers, they’re too formidable. Who told me? A very fast young woman called Ocock, or Ozanne, who became engaged to a man I’d done a great deal for, and who insisted on being brought to call on me—what the modern girl is coming to,” threw in Mrs. Burnett parenthetically, “I really don’t know. No sense of decorum! And she actually told me your tale, my dear, apparently as evidence that the wickedness of Mayfair was as nothing to the wickedness of Kensington! ‘Take her away, George,’ I cried, ‘and never let me see her again—and if you’re imbecile enough to marry her, you shall never see me again!’ He broke the engagement at once.”

  So Providence, thought Adelaide, is just after all. She would have liked to dwell on this remarkable circumstance more thoroughly, but her errand weighed on her. She said gently:—

  “The reason I have come, Aunt Belle, is to bring bad news. Papa died just a week ago. Mamma wasn’t capable of writing, she isn’t able to see anyone; so I came to tell you.”

  There was a long silence—rather like the silence, Adelaide thought, when a canary stops singing. Mrs. Burnett’s painted face showed neither grief nor shock; it simply became immobile, so that each pencil-stroke about the eyebrows, each graduation of colour in the cheeks, showed with rather dreadful distinctness; and with sudden insight Adelaide guessed that over a long period of time that had been Mrs. Burnett’s automatic defence against the ravages of emotion: tears would have washed her face away. She now put up a tiny lace handkerchief and held it in readiness under her eyelids; but it remained dry.

  “Mon dieu,” she said at last. “I won’t pretend to be heart-broken. But one doesn’t like to hear of people dying. Was it sudden?”

  “Very sudden, without any pain. It was his heart.”

  Belle Burnett shivered.

  “But he was older than I am—much older, wasn’t he? He must have been quite an old man. And it is all over—the funeral, and so on?”

  “All,” said Adelaide gently.

  “Then we will not talk about it. Thank you for coming, but we will not talk about it.” Mrs. Burnett shook her shoulders delicately, as though against the rain of sorrow. “And now let me look at you, my dear, for you’ve turned out better than I expected. In fact,” said Mrs. Burnett frankly, “you’re quite distinguished. Heaven knows where you get it from, unless from me. Do you really live in a slum?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Adelaide. “I like it.”

  Belle Burnett threw up her hands again, seizing volatility out of the air.

  “C’est incroyable! Of all my dreadful relations the only one with an appearance tells me she lives in a slum. I suppose that’s at least better than living in a suburb.”

  “Mamma and Treff are going to live in Florence.”

  “Which is precisely what I mean. Treff is your brother? What does he do?”

  “He’s going to be an art-expert.”

  “How ridiculous,” said Mrs. Burnett cheerfully. “However, perhaps he’ll marry one of those rich American girls who are always hanging round the Pitti. And I, my dear, am leaving England myself. I’m going to Vienna.”

  To Adelaide’s astonishment, Mrs. Burnett actually blushed. The colour swept up from her withered throat to the dyed hair at her temples, making her look almost girlish; confusion rejuvenated her. She laughed and said quickly:—

  “Oh, I know I’m a fool, but someone’s ill there and wants me. I’m in the middle of packing now, and my maid is such an imbecile—you must really see for yourself!”

  In the full flow of spirits again she swept Adelaide across the landing, into a bedroom strewn with luxurious gear. Adelaide marvelled at the enormous quantity of hand-made underwear—embroidered chemises, petticoats three frills deep in lace—which Mrs. Burnett apparently considered the necessary equipment for visiting: a sick friend. (“I’m still waiting for the négligées,” she explained, “but it’s no use hurrying an artist like Hortense.”) On the dressing-table lay a pile of jewel-cases, glove-boxes, sachets of all sorts; parasols, one open, added to the confusion. It seemed plain that the stay in Vienna was to be of some length.

  “How long shall you be away?” asked Adelaide.

  “My dear, how can I tell? Perhaps for years, perhaps for ever. I’ve let this house furnished, the lease is up next year, I shall very likely tell my man of business to arrange a sale while I’m not here to be heart-broken by it. Money’s very important to me,” said Belle Burnett, without rancour. “Is your husband still penniless?”

  “Oh, no. We could be described,” said Adelaide truthfully, “as very comfortably off.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Mrs. Burnett looked at her shrewdly. “You know, in spite of your very distinguished and decorous appearance, I’ve a feeling that you live, as I do, outside the rules. I wish you’d come to see me sooner. I’d like to give you something to remember me by. You must take a little souvenir!”

  At that Adelaide laughed.

  “I have one already. Don’t you remember giving me an Indian shell? A pink Indian shell, with spikes on it?”

  Up flew Mrs. Burnett’s hands again.

  “Tiens! That horrible object! Have you really got it still?”

  “It’s on my mantelpiece.”

  “That is absolutely touching. That shows sentiment. Here, take my pearls!”

  She swooped upon the dressing-table, seized a red morocco case, opened it, hastily closed it again, opened a slightly smaller box, and thrust a gleaming handful under her niece’s nose. The reckless good-nature of the action struck Adelaide with wonder: it was unlike anything she had ever known, it gave her a glimpse into a world where the easy-come, easy-go of Britannia. Mews: was translated into terms of unimaginable extravagance—a world still nearer to Britannia Mews, however, than to Kensington or Platt’s End. But she instinctively protested.

  “My dear aunt, I can’t possibly take them!”

  “Why not?” argued Mrs. Burnett energetically. “You’d take them if I left them to you—and I quite possibly shan’t have anything to leave at all. Put the box in your pocket, my dear, sell them if you like, and give my love to your wicked husband!”

  As many people had found in the past, there was no withstanding Belle Burnett. When Adelaide left the house, she took the pearls with her.

  2

  This was the last Adelaide saw of her blood-relations for many years. She had seen them all—her mother, Treff, the Hambros, Alice, Mrs. Burnett; and with none of them had she discovered any real tie. They had no use for her, nor she for them; and the tacit admission of this fact marked the end of a long period in her life. Henceforward the centre of her life was to be Gilbert alone, without doubts, without backward glances; when four years later Alice broke silence to write announcing the birth of a daughter, Adelaide did not reply. She did not even write to Italy. Such extreme concentration upon one subject might have become dangerous, for Adelaide’s devotion and energy were both unlimited; but both presently found full scope, as she herself found a modicum of fame, in the new enterprise with which she was to be associated for the rest of her life. In 1905 a long dream of Gilbert’s was at last realized, and the Puppet Theatre was born.

  CHAPTER X

  1

  Brilliant in maturity, the Puppet Theatre was of slow growth. As Mr. Bly had foretold, it took Gilbert many years t
o become an expert manipulator, and for long periods the puppets were laid aside. But he always returned to them, they exercised a fascination over him: at last he rigged up a booth in the coach-house, and one Christmas-tide the Lamberts entertained their neighbours with a performance. This was in 1901. The French dolls were quite overshadowed by a comic singer and an acrobat constructed by Gilbert and Mr. Bly, which the neighbours found much more to their taste. But the show was altogether a success, and led to several professional engagements among Friendly Societies and at Smoking Concerts. Gilbert and Mr. Bly set to work and completed a whole music-hall troupe; they put their names down at an agency, and presently were able to give up addressing envelopes and devote themselves to this new career. The advent of the gramophone was a great help to them, and in a modest way they flourished. But Gilbert still hankered after a theatre, and when the coach-house next door fell empty, boldly proposed to Adelaide that they should take it and build a permanent stage. Adelaide considered the whole project extremely rash, but Belle Burnett’s pearls had been valued at six hundred pounds; she sold them, put four hundred in the bank, and gave Gilbert the rest. (At the same time his bed was moved up to her room; it was the sensible thing to do.)

  So the Puppet Theatre was born, in 1905; it might have died soon after, but for the intervention of Iris O’Keefe.

  The career of Miss O’Keefe, now at Daly’s, had been immensely successful. A genuine talent for dancing, a mediocre voice, a spectacular appearance, and a cold heart carried her to the top of her own particular tree; and unlike many of her rivals, she stayed there. Stage-door Johnnies dogged her footsteps, more serious admirers invested her earnings for her; she lived in St. John’s Wood, and the Blazer—but how altered, how chastened a Blazer!—lived with her. Iris was far too wise to discard her parent, she rather went in for being respectable, and an icy will-power cramped the Blazer into corsets, clothed her in subfusc hues, limited her to half a bottle of gin a day, and propped her up as a symbol of decorum in the front window of St. John’s Wood. “You must meet my mamma,” Iris would say, at the beginning of each new friendship; and each new friend, gazing into Mamma’s cowlike, slightly bewildered, but stubborn eye—noting perhaps Mamma’s still powerful physique—realized at once that the O’Keefes were not folk to be trifled with. Iris had never married, and did not wish to; but she soon enjoyed, quite apart from her professional earnings, a considerable and steady income.