



Produced by Suzanne Shell, Project Gutenberg Beginners
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LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT

by ADA LEVERSON

First published London, 1916

(Book Three of THE LITTLE OTTLEYS)







TO TACITUS




CHAPTER I

An appalling crash, piercing shrieks, a loud, unequal quarrel on a
staircase, the sharp bang of a door....

Edith started up from her restful corner on the blue sofa by the fire,
where she had been thinking about her guest, and rushed to the door.

'Archie--Archie! Come here directly! What's that noise?'

A boy of ten came calmly into the room.

'It wasn't me that made the noise,' he said, 'it was Madame Frabelle.'

His mother looked at him. He was a handsome, fair boy with clear grey
eyes that looked you straight in the face without telling you anything
at all, long eyelashes that softened, but gave a sly humour to his
glance, a round face, a very large forehead, and smooth straw-coloured
hair. Already at this early age he had the expressionless reserve of the
public school where he was to be sent, with something of the suave
superiority of the university for which he was intended. Edith thought
he inherited both of these traits from her.

       *       *       *       *       *

She gazed at him, wondering, as she had often wondered, at the
impossibility of guessing, even vaguely, what was really going on behind
that large brow. And he looked back observantly, but not expressively,
at her. She was a slim, fair, pretty woman, with more vividness and
character than usually goes with her type. Like the boy, she had
long-lashed grey eyes, and _blond-cendre_ hair: her mouth and chin were
of the Burne-Jones order, and her charm, which was great but
unintentional, and generally unconscious, appealed partly to the senses
and partly to the intellect. She was essentially not one of those women
who irritate all their own sex by their power (and still more by their
fixed determination) to attract men; she was really and unusually
indifferent to general admiration. Still, that she was not a cold woman,
not incapable of passionate feeling, was obvious to any physiognomist;
the fully curved lips showed her generous and pleasure-loving
temperament, while the softly glancing, intelligent, smiling eyes spoke
fastidiousness and discrimination. Her voice was low and soft, with a
vibrating sound in it, and she laughed often and easily, being very
ready to see and enjoy the amusing side of life. But observation and
emotion alike were instinctively veiled by a quiet, reposeful manner, so
that she made herself further popular by appearing retiring. Edith
Ottley might so easily have been the centre of any group, and yet--she
was not! Women were grateful to her, and in return admitted that she was
pretty, unaffected and charming. Today she was dressed very simply in
dark blue and might have passed for Archie's elder sister.

'It isn't anything. It wasn't my fault. It was her fault. Madame
Frabelle said _she_ would teach me to take away her mandolin and use it
for a cricket bat. She needn't teach me; I know already.'

'Now, Archie, you know perfectly well you've no right to go into her
room when she isn't there.'

'How can I go in when she is there?... She won't let me. Besides, I
don't want to.'

'It isn't nice of you; you ought not to go into her room without her
permission.'

'It isn't her room; it's your room. At least, it's the spare room.'

'Have you done any harm to the mandolin?'

He paused a little, as he often did before answering, as if in absence
of mind, and then said, as though starting up from a reverie:

'Er--no. No harm.'

'Well, what have you done?'

'I can mend it,' he answered.

'Madame Frabelle has been very kind to you, Archie. I'm sorry you're not
behaving nicely to a guest in your mother's house. It isn't the act of a
gentleman.'

'Oh. Well, there are a great many things in her room, Mother; some of
them are rather jolly.'

'Go and say you're sorry, Archie. And you mustn't do it again.'

'Will it be the act of a gentleman to say I'm sorry? It'll be the act of
a story-teller, you know.'

'What! Aren't you sorry to have bothered her?'

'I'm sorry she found it out,' he said, as he turned to the door.

'These perpetual scenes and quarrels between my son and my guest are
most painful to me,' Edith said, with assumed solemnity.

He looked grave. 'Well, she needn't have quarrelled.'

'But isn't she very kind to you?'

'Yes, she isn't bad sometimes. I like it when she tells me lies about
what her husband used to do--I mean stories. She's not a bad sort.... Is
she a homeless refugette, Mother?'

'Not exactly that. She's a widow, and she's staying with us, and we must
be nice to her. Now, you won't forget again, will you?'

'Right. But I can mend it.'

'I think I'd better go up and see her,' said Edith.

Archie politely opened the door for his mother.

'I shouldn't, if I were you,' he said.

Edith slowly went back to the fire.

'Well, I'll leave her a little while, perhaps. Now do go and do
something useful.'

'What, useful? Gracious! I haven't got much more of my holidays,
Mother.'

'That's no reason why you should spend your time in worrying everybody,
and smashing the musical instruments of guests that are under
your roof.'

He looked up at the ceiling and smiled, as if pleased at this way of
putting it.

'I suppose she's very glad to have a roof to her mouth--I mean to her
head,' he hurriedly corrected. 'But, Mother, she isn't poor. She has an
amber necklace. Besides, she gave Dilly sixpence the other day for not
being frightened of a cow. If she can afford to give a little girl
sixpence for every animal she says she isn't afraid of!'...

'That only proves she's kind. And I didn't say she was poor; that's not
the point. We must be nice and considerate to anyone staying with
us--don't you see?'

He became absent-minded again for a minute.

'Well, I shouldn't be surprised if she'll be able to use it again,' he
said consolingly--'the mandolin, I mean. Besides, what's the good of it
anyway? I say, Mother, are all foreigners bad-tempered?'

'Madame Frabelle is not a foreigner.'

'I never said she was. But her husband was. He used to get into
frightful rages with her sometimes. She says he was a noble fellow. She
liked him awfully, but she says he never understood her. Do you suppose
she talked English to him?'

'That's enough, Archie. Go and find something to do.'

As he went out he turned round again and said:

'Does father like her?'

'Why, yes, of course he does.'

'How funny!' said Archie. 'Well, I'll say I'm sorry... when I see her
again.'

Edith kissed him, a proceeding that he bore heroically. He was kissable,
but she seldom gave way to the temptation. Then she went back to the
sofa. She wanted to go on thinking about that mystery, her guest.



CHAPTER II

Madame Frabelle had arrived about a fortnight ago, with a letter of
introduction from Lady Conroy. Lady Conroy herself was a vague, amiable
Irishwoman, with a very large family of children. She and Edith, who
knew each other slightly before, had grown intimate when they met, the
previous summer, at a French watering-place. The letter asked Edith,
with urgent inconsequence, to be kind to Madame Frabelle, of whom Lady
Conroy said nothing except that she was of good family--she had been a
Miss Eglantine Pollard--and was the widow of a well-to-do French
wine merchant.

She was described as a clever, interesting woman who wished to study
English life in her native land. It did not surprise Lady Conroy in the
least that an Englishwoman should wish to study English in England; but
she was a woman who was never surprised at anything except the obvious
and the inevitable.

Edith had not had the faintest idea of asking Madame Frabelle to stay at
her very small house in Sloane Street, for which invitation, indeed,
there seemed no possible need or occasion. Yet she found herself asking
her visitor to stay for a few days until a house or a hotel should be
found; and Bruce, who detested guests in the house, seconded the
invitation with warmth and enthusiasm. As Bruce was a subconscious snob,
he may have been slightly influenced by the letter from Lady Conroy, who
was the wife of an unprominent Cabinet Minister and, in a casual way,
rather _grande dame_, if not exactly smart. But this consideration could
not weigh with Edith, and its effect on Bruce must have long passed
away. Madame Frabelle accepted the invitation as a matter of course,
made use of it as a matter of convenience, and had remained ever since,
showing no sign of leaving. Edith was deeply interested in her.

       *       *       *       *       *

And Bruce was more genuinely impressed and unconsciously bored by Madame
Frabelle than by any woman he had ever met. Yet she was not at all
extraordinary. She was a tall woman of about fifty, well bred without
being distinguished, who could never have been handsome but was
graceful, dignified, and pleasing. She was neither dark nor fair. She
had a broad, good-natured face, and a pale, clear complexion. She was
inclined to be fat; not locally, in the manner of a pincushion, but with
the generally diffused plumpness described in shops as stock size. She
was not the sort of modern woman of fifty, with a thin figure and a good
deal of rouge, who looks young from the back when dancing or walking,
and talks volubly and confidentially of her young men. She had, of
course, nothing of the middle-aged woman of the past, who at her age
would have been definitely on the shelf, doing wool-work or collecting
recipes there. Nor did she resemble the strong-minded type in perpetual
tailor-made clothes, with short grey hair and eye-glasses, who belongs
to clubs and talks chiefly of the franchise. Madame Frabelle was soft,
womanly, amiable, yet extremely outspoken, very firm, and inclined to
lay down the law. She was certainly charming, as Bruce and Edith agreed
every day (even now, when they were beginning to wonder when she was
going away!). She had an extraordinary amount of personal magnetism,
since she convinced both the Ottleys, as she had convinced Lady Conroy,
that she was wonderfully clever: in fact, that she knew everything.

A fortnight had passed, and Edith was beginning to grow doubtful. Was
she so clever? Did she know everything? Did she know anything at all?
Long arguments, that grew quite heated and excited at luncheon or
dinner, about the origin of a word, the author of a book, and various
debatable questions of the kind, invariably ended, after reference to a
dictionary or an encyclopaedia, in Madame Frabelle proving herself, with
an air of triumph, to be completely and entirely wrong. She was as
generally positive as she was fatally mistaken. Yet so intense a belief
had she in her intuition as well as in her own inaccurate information
that her hypnotised hosts were growing daily more and more under her
thumb. She took it for granted that everyone would take her for
granted--and everyone did.

Was all this agreeable or otherwise? Edith thought it must be, or how
could they bear it at all? If it had not been extremely pleasant it
would have been simply impossible.

The fair, gentle, pretty Edith, who was more subtle than she appeared on
the surface, while apparently indolent, had a very active brain. Madame
Frabelle caused her to use it more than she had ever done before. Edith
was intensely curious and until she understood her visitor she could not
rest satisfied. She made her a psychological study.

For example, here was a curious little point. Madame Frabelle did not
look young for her age, nor did she seem in the least inclined to wish
to be admired, nor ever to have been a flirt. The word 'fast', for
example, would have been quite grotesque as associated with her, though
she was by no means prudish as to subjects of conversation, nor prim in
the middle-class way. Yet somehow it would not have seemed incongruous
or surprising if one had found out that there was even now some romance
in her life. But, doubtless, the most striking thing about her--and what
made her popular--was her intense interest in other people. It went so
far as to reach the very verge of being interference; but she was so
pleasant that one could scarcely resent it either as curiosity or
intrusion. Since she had stayed with the Ottleys, she appeared to think
of no-one and nothing else in the world. One would think that no-one
else existed for her. And, after all, such extreme interest is
flattering. Bruce, Archie, Edith, even Dilly's nurse, all had, in her,
an audience: interested, absorbed, enchanted. Who could help
enjoying it?


       *       *       *       *       *

Edith was still thinking about Madame Frabelle when a few minutes later,
Bruce came in.

Bruce also was fair, besides being tall, good-looking and well built.
Known by their friends for some reason as the little Ottleys, these two
were a rather fine-looking pair, and (at a casual glance) admirably
suited to one another. They appeared to be exactly like thousands of
other English married couples of the upper middle class between thirty
and forty; he looked as manly (through being sunburnt from knocking a
little ball over the links) as if he habitually went tiger-shooting;
but, though not without charm, he had much less distinction than his
wife. Most people smiled when Bruce's name was mentioned, and it was
usual for his intimates to clap him on the back and call him a silly
ass, which proves he was not unpopular. On the other hand, Edith was
described as a very pretty woman, or a nice little thing, and by the
more discriminating, jolly clever when you know her, and don't you
forget it.

When Bruce told his wife that no-one had ever regretted consulting him
on a difficult, secret, and delicate matter, Edith had said she was
quite sure they hadn't. Perhaps she thought no-one had ever regretted
consulting him on such a subject, simply because no-one had ever tried.

'Oh, please don't move, Edith,' he said, in the tone which means, 'Oh,
please do move.' 'I like to see you comfortable.'

There was something in his manner that made her feel apologetic, and she
changed her position with the feeling of guilt about nothing, and a
tinge of shame for something she hadn't done, easily produced by an air
of self-sacrifice Bruce was apt to show at such moments.

'Your hair's coming down, Edith,' he said kindly, to add to her vague
embarrassment.

As a matter of fact, a curl by the right ear was only about one-tenth of
an inch farther on the cheek than it was intended to be But, by this
observation, he got the advantage of her by giving the impression that
she looked wild, unkempt, and ruffled, though she was, in reality,
exactly as trim and neat as always.

'Well--about the delicate matter you were going to talk over with me,
Bruce?'

'Oh yes. Oh, by the way,' he said, 'before we go into that, I wonder if
you could help me about something? You could do me a really great
service by helping me to find a certain book.'

'Why, of course, Bruce, with pleasure. What is the book?' asked the
amiable wife, looking alert.

Bruce looked at her with pity.

'What is the book? My dear Edith, don't you see I shouldn't have come to
you about it if I knew what the book was.'

'I beg your pardon, Bruce,' said Edith, now feeling thoroughly in the
wrong, and looking round the room. 'But if you can't give me the name of
the book I scarcely see how I can find it.'

'And if I knew its name I shouldn't want your assistance.'

It seemed a deadlock.

Going to the bookcase, Edith said:

'Can't you give me some idea of what it's like?'

'Certainly I can. I've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in
fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.'

Edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and
cross-questioned Bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. She asked
whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the
library, whether it was Stevenson, whether it was French, or if it was
suitable for the children.

To all of these questions he returned a negative.

'Suitable for the children?' he repeated. 'What a fantastic idea! Do you
think I should take all this trouble to come and request your assistance
and spend hours of valuable time looking for a book that's suitable for
the children?'

'But, Bruce, if you request my assistance without having the slightest
idea of what book it is, how shall I possibly be able to help?'

'Quite so... quite so. Never mind, Edith, don't trouble. If I say that
it's a pity there isn't more order in the house you won't regard it, I
hope, dear, as a reproach in any way. If there were a place for
everything, and everything in its place--