Chapter IX: Luncheon for Three

One Tuesday morning when Celia was having her harmony lesson at the Academy, the hall-porter entered the room with some importance, and handed her a visiting card. It bore the superscription, “Lady Marjorie Stonor,” and underneath was scribbled in pencil, “Am in town for two days. Can you see me?”

With some excitement the girl asked leave of her professor to be excused, and, gathering up her music-books, hastened from the room in glad expectancy. Lady Marjorie was standing in the hall, studying the concert notices. She was wearing some handsome sables, with Parma violets in her toque, at her throat, and on her muff, and she looked younger and prettier than ever, Celia thought.

“I couldn’t resist coming in to have a look at you,” she explained, after the first greetings were over. “I’ve only come up to London to see my solicitors, and I am going back to-morrow afternoon.”

“But you will spend the rest of the day with me, won’t you?” asked Celia, anxiously. “Now that you have come, I don’t want to let you go.”

Lady Marjorie smiled. “I shall be able to inflict my presence upon you till six o’clock,” she answered. “I have promised to dine with my brother Bexley at Eaton Square this evening, but I am free until then.”

They passed up the stairs and into the waiting-room, where the girl students whiled away their spare time with musical _causerie_. Lady Marjorie expressed surprise that musicians should ever have any nerves left at all, for the medley of discordant sounds which surrounded them was enough to shatter the strongest, she thought. Pianos to right of them, pianos to left of them, violins and voices above them, and the low rumbling of the practice organ below them--it was just like a foretaste of Pandemonium.

On the ledge of the book-case in the waiting-room were several letters addressed to various students. Celia had never received one at the Academy as yet, but there happened to be one for her to-day. The envelope was black bordered, and the hand-writing large and round.

“It is from Gladys Milnes,” she said; “but I was not aware that she was in mourning.”

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Lady Marjorie, with surprise. “I made sure Mr. Karne would have told you. Their uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, is dead; he died about three weeks ago. Geoffrey came up to town for the funeral; it is almost a wonder that you did not come across him.”

This was news to Celia. She made Lady Marjorie sit down and tell her all about it. It was scarcely a suitable place for a confidential chat, for there were several students waiting about and passing through to the cloak-room; but there was so much noise going on all about them, that their voices were lost in the general hubbub.

“Fancy Geoffrey Milnes in London, without paying me a visit!” she exclaimed, almost vexedly. “He might have let me know that he was coming.”

“His uncle’s death was quite sudden,” said Lady Marjorie. “I suppose he was too busy and too much worried to come and see you. You know, we all thought that Geoffrey would succeed to Dr. Williams’s house in Harley Street, and that it would be a splendid thing for him to have a good West End practice. Well, it seems that the house is mortgaged, and the practice has gone down to nothing. I dare say you have heard of Mrs. Neville Williams--she is a well-known society leader, and has the reputation of being one of the most expensively dressed women in London. It was her extravagance that ruined poor Dr. Williams, and her debts, or rather her husband’s debts, are, I believe, something enormous. However, Bexley told me that she is already engaged, _sub rosa_, to the Duke of Wallingcourt, so no doubt she considered her husband’s death a happy release. She went about everywhere with Wallingcourt last season, and poor little Williams used to come running behind with her _porte-monnaie_, as if he were her footman instead of her husband. I am so very sorry for Geoffrey Milnes, though. He had quite counted on the Harley Street house and practice to give him a good start, and now he will have to go plodding on at Durlston instead.

“That is the worst of waiting for dead men’s shoes,” said Celia, sententiously. “But I am really sorry for Geoffrey. I will write him a letter of condolence as soon as I have time.”

“Then you do not correspond with him regularly?”

“Oh no. I have had two letters from him since I left Durlston, that is all.”

She glanced at the clock, which pointed to a quarter to one. “We must be going,” she continued, rising. “You don’t mind coming back with me to Maida Vale?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Lady Marjorie, hastily, “I met Guy Haviland this morning. You’ve heard of Haviland, haven’t you? He is a musical critic, and writes plays. I spoke to him about you, as I thought he might be of use to you in your musical career. He is a thoroughly good fellow, and always ready to encourage youthful talent. He expressed the wish to make your acquaintance, and has invited us to luncheon to-day. We are to meet him at Prince’s, in Piccadilly, at half-past one.”

The girl was delighted at the prospect of meeting Guy Haviland personally, for he was well-known in musical and dramatic circles, and she had heard him very highly spoken of amongst her friends. Suddenly, however, her face clouded.

“It is very kind of you and of him,” she faltered; “but I really think I ought to go home. You see, since I’ve come to London, I have made up my mind to practise the Jewish religion sincerely, and that forbids me to partake of food which has not been prepared according to Jewish law. Otherwise I should have been so pleased to lunch with you and Mr. Haviland.”

“But, my dear girlie, that is absurd. At that rate you will never be able to go into society at all. I don’t understand your beliefs, and I have no wish to make you act against your principles, but I really cannot see the connection between spiritual religion and what we eat and drink. Those dietary laws were excellent in their day, no doubt, but you must remember that civilization has advanced since then, and we are not living in the Holy Land.”

“That is not the question,” answered Celia, hesitatingly. “You do not understand, Lady Marjorie, and I am not qualified to explain. However, I will pocket my religious scruples for once. I must let Mrs. Friedberg know that I shall not be home.”

She put on her hat and jacket, and they sauntered down Regent Street to the post office, where Celia despatched a telegram. She was anxious for Mrs. Friedberg to see her friend, so they arranged to go to Maida Vale in the afternoon.

“How empty London is just now,” Lady Marjorie observed as they came out of the office. “There seems to be nobody in town.”

Celia glanced at the people who thronged the pavements, and at the ceaseless stream of traffic in the street.

“Nobody?” she repeated, questioningly.

“No society people, I mean,” explained Lady Marjorie, for her edification. “I suppose they are all away.”

It was quite half-past one by the time they reached Prince’s restaurant, for they made an exhaustive survey of the shops on either side of Regent Street, and purchased a few articles, on the way.

Almost simultaneously to their arrival, a gentleman drove up in a private hansom, and addressed Lady Marjorie with a cordial greeting. He was a man of about thirty-five, of professional appearance, with a genial clean-shaven face and clear-cut features. His manner betokened the polished man of the world, and he had a way of treating ladies with that old-fashioned courtly deference which in these days has, unfortunately, almost been relegated to a bygone generation.

Leading the way to a small table which had been reserved for him, he apologized for his wife’s absence, and plunged into a conversation on musical matters, which immediately put Celia at her ease. He was acquainted with most of the professors at the Academy, and knew Emil Lambert well.

“You are in good hands,” he assured her encouragingly. “Lambert is a splendid man. You may consider him somewhat dilatory in bringing you out, but you must not mind that. I do not suppose he will allow you to sing at a single Academy concert until you are quite qualified to start on your professional career. He is very jealous for his reputation, and always keeps his pupils in the background until he is sure that they will do him credit.”

“He won’t even let me try a song yet,” Celia complained. “I have to keep on at those wretched exercises, and I am so tired of them. Now, my elocution master is just the reverse to Mr. Lambert. He has already arranged for me to recite at the students’ concert on Saturday week, and I am to take the part of Lydia Languish in the ‘Rivals’ at the dramatic performance next term.”

Mr. Haviland was interested. “Then you evidently have talent for acting as well as singing?” he queried, helping Lady Marjorie to some _mayonnaise_.

“I am very fond of acting, but I am not sure that I have talent for it,” Celia answered modestly. “‘Lydia Languish’ will be my first attempt.”

“And have you any idea of going on the stage?”

“I am afraid Miss Franks’s brother would object to her doing that,” put in Lady Marjorie. “He is a most broad-minded man in other respects, but he is decidedly prejudiced against the dramatic profession.”

“A good many people are,” said Guy Haviland, with a smile. “Nevertheless, the drama nowadays is just as much recognized as an art as is music or painting; only, unfortunately, it is the most easily abused of the three.”

“That is true,” responded Lady Marjorie. “There are a great many actors and actresses, but how many real artists are there on the English stage? Not more than a dozen, all told. However, I would like you to go and see Miss Franks act, and if you think she has the makings of an artist, I will persuade her brother to modify his opinion.”

The restaurant was filling rapidly, even though, according to Lady Marjorie, there was “nobody” in town. Celia sipped her wine, and watched the people with interest; and Mr. Haviland pointed out to her those with whom he was acquainted. It was quite an enjoyable little luncheon party, for their host possessed a fund of entertaining anecdotes which he related tersely and with dry humour. Celia was in her element, and consequently spoke and looked well.

Before they parted, Mr. Haviland gave her his visiting-card, and invited her very cordially to come and make the acquaintance of his wife and sister. He was anxious to test her musical and dramatic abilities, and promised Lady Marjorie to take an interest in her career, and to give her all the advice he could.

Lady Marjorie informed her, later, that Mrs. Haviland was practically a nonentity so for as social life was concerned.

“I cannot understand a man like Guy Haviland marrying such a woman,” she said confidentially. “She hasn’t an idea beyond servants and babies. There has always been a baby at the Haviland’s ever since I have known them; and as soon as one is able to walk, another one appears upon the scene. Mrs. Haviland is seldom visible at their ‘At Homes,’ being otherwise engaged, and her sister-in-law, Grace, does all the entertaining. It is strange, is it not, how clever men come to marry such very insipid women? I have seen it over and over again amongst my friends.”

“Perhaps their husbands’ cleverness overpowers them?” suggested Celia, thoughtfully; “or perhaps a clever man finds that a homely kind of wife is more conducive to domestic happiness than one greatly gifted with intellectual powers. Even the cleverest men are human, and they appreciate home comforts.”

“That may be so,” agreed Lady Marjorie. “Anyway, Guy Haviland seems happy enough. I want you to keep in touch with him, Celia. His acquaintance is well worth cultivating.”