XXIII
Itwas two years before François Fontenelle re-visited Fairholme Court. Again it was June, and Anne had taken him to the garden, full of pride to show him her roses in the height of their beauty.
They strolled round its paths talking of a thousand things, and finally sat down under the arch, over which there poured a cascade of snowy bloom. The table in front of the bench was littered with papers, which François began idly to examine.
“The New Thought!” he exclaimed, holding up one of the leaflets between his finger and thumb. “What on earth areyoudoing with this latter day product?”
Anne laughed. “A strenuous young thing who is spending her holiday in the village brought a heap of papers this morning, and begged me to read them. She said it was scandalous that such an intelligent woman as I appeared to her, should be ignorant of the ‘movement,’” she added demurely.
“Whatever the modern young woman lacks, it isn’t cheek,” he returned.
“Well! What do you think of the ‘no property’ idea in the eternally boring sex question? Let me see, there are to be state babies, aren’t there? Have state lovers been suggested yet, or is that a figment of my imagination?”
Anne sighed. “Perhaps I’m too old for it,” she said. “I know I don’t understand it. It all seems to me so terribly business-like, and I was never a business woman.”
François laughed. “I should as soon expect one of these roses to start company promoting.”
“One thing I feel quite sure about,” she went on, drawing her lace shawl round her shoulders. “The men and women who write some of these letters have never loved.”
“Love has gone out of fashion in England, and the new wisdom has taken its place,” observed François. “Its professors are gentlemen who live on grape nuts, and are occupied municipally. They don’t believe in love, partly because a diet of grape nuts is not conducive to the emotion, partly because they are afraid of disagreeing with Mr. Bernard Shaw. You have saved me from belonging to the latter class, but only as a brand is snatched from the burning.”
“The simile is ill-chosen,” declared Anne serenely. “There’s no fire about any of the new doctrines. They are all eminently cool, calculating and dull. Dull as ditch-water, and quite as appetizing.”
François smiled. “You are a very old-fashioned woman, Anne,” he declared, “and the sight of these things near you is absurd, and even indecent.”
He swept them from the table.
“Go and fetch your Herrick, and read me how roses first came red, and lilies white.”
“My lord shall be obeyed—another time,” said Anne laughing.
“How is Mrs. Dakin?” asked François suddenly, lighting a cigarette.
Anne was engaged in pushing the end of a trailing green branch through one of the spaces in the lattice work.
“She and the baby, who is six weeks old to-day, are away on a visit to her mother. She is very well, and exceedingly happy,” she added after a moment spent in arranging the branch to her satisfaction.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
She turned to him. “I believe you are, François.”
“I’m also glad to hear she’s away, sincebecause of that circumstance presumably I was honoured with an invitation to-day.”
“Why haven’t I seen you for so long?” inquired Anne irrelevantly.
“I was afraid to come,” he said, looking at her with a smile.
“Why?”
“Oh, not because I dreaded a scene with you. Have you ever made a scene in your life, Anne? You ought to have done it once at least, to prove your affinity with the sex you adorn. But I don’t believe you ever have. No. I was afraid of your eyes.”
“What’s the matter with my eyes?” she asked, with a smile concealed in them.
“Anne Page, if you’re going to flirt with me I give you due warning that I’m a poor weak man, and I can’t answer for the consequences.”
She laughed. “The baby is a darling, and I’m its godmother. They’ve called herAnne.”
“They may, but they needn’t flatter themselves she’ll ever be as attractive as Anne Page.”
“Her father already thinks her the most lovely creature in the world—except his wife.”
“And how are all the other worthies? Still at your feet, I suppose?”
“They are all charming to me. My littlefriend Sylvia, the Vicar’s daughter, sang at her first concert the other night, and had a great success. The vicarage is standing on its head with pride, in consequence.”
“And the pastoral life still amuses you?”
“Very much.”
“Wonderful woman!”
“Dear François, why not?” she asked. “You know I am a very simple person.”
“Yes. Though you were once the queen of quite a brilliant salon.”
She was silent.
“When are you coming over to see your picture?”
“This autumn.” For a moment she paused. “You know my wishes, François? I have left René’s pictures to the Luxembourg. The two we like best—you know them—are to hang on either side of the portrait. It’s in my will, of course.”
He smoked a moment without speaking.
“I wonder if he’ll come and look at them?” he said at last. “I think he will, and you’ll smile at him out of the portrait.”
“I’m so glad he liked it,” she answered softly, after a long pause.
“He only saw it once. I never dared show it to him again. That’s why I put it away.”
The birds had begun their evening song,and the garden rang with the voices of blackbirds and thrushes.
“Well! I must get back toThe Chase,” declared François, glancing at his watch. “I shall be late for dinner as it is. This is good-bye till September. Not a moment later mind, and then you will stay in Paris a decent time?”
He looked at her, as she got up and stood for a moment embowered in the roses, her lace shawl hanging from her arms, her figure still beautiful and gracious.
“The gods have granted you the gift of eternal youth, Anne,” he declared. “I want to paint another portrait.”
She laughed, and shook her head.
“There will be no more portraits,” she said.
She went with him as far as a little gate which gave upon the meadows, through which a field path led toThe Chase.
After he had gone she wandered into the lavender-garden, and in the gathering summer twilight paced the path between the grey-green borders.
In the west, the sky was still flushed with sunset. The air, so quiet that not a leaf trembled, was sweet with the scent of flowers.
Anne walked slowly, her mind occupied withpleasant trifles. She decided that the lilies in the south border must this autumn be divided. She must tell Davis to plant more daffodils in the orchard under the apple trees. There was the village children’s treat to be considered, and she must not forget to talk it over with the Vicar. Suddenly she remembered that Dr. Dakin was coming in to smoke his pipe and talk. Madge and the baby were returning on Thursday. He would therefore be in excellent spirits.
The roses on the hedge round the sundial breathed a sweet strong fragrance into the dusk.
Anne picked one of them, and tucked it into the front of her gown, before she turned towards the house.
THE END
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