"I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so."
"I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so."
When a corner near the rhododendrons has concealed them from view, Dysart rises from his seat and goes deliberately over to where Lady Swansdown is sitting. She is an old friend of his, and he has therefore no qualms about being a little brusque with her where occasion demands it.
"Have a game?" says he. His suggestion is full of playfulness, his tone, however, is stern.
"Dear Felix, why?" says she, smiling up at him beautifully. There is even a suspicion of amusement in her smile.
"A change!" says he. His words this time might mean something, his tone anything. She can read either as she pleases.
"True!" says she laughing. "There is nothing like change. You have wakened me to a delightful fact. Lord Baltimore," turning languidly to her companion, who has been a littledistraitsince his wife and son passed by him. "What do you say to trying a change for just we two. Variety theysayis charming, shall we try if shade and coolness and comfort are to be found in that enchanting glade down there?" She points as she speaks to an opening in the wood where perpetual twilight seems to reign, as seen from where they now are sitting.
"If you will," says Baltimore, still a little vaguely. He gets up, however, and stretches his arms indolently above his head as one might who is flinging from him the remembrance of an unpleasant dream.
"The sun here is intolerable," says Lady Swansdown, rising too. "More than one can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your suggestion. I should never have thought of the glade if you hadn't asked me to play that impossible game."
She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart, and, accompanied by Lord Baltimore, moves away from the assembled groups upon the lawn to the dim recesses of the leafy glade.
"Sold!" says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It is always impossible to Dicky to hold his tongue. "But you needn't look so cut up about it. 'Tisn't good enough, my dear fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Baltimore is as much in love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagination is his strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last for the twentieth time a solace for all his woes in the disinterested love of somebody, it really never much matters who."
"There is more in it thanyouthink," says Dysart gloomily.
"Not a fraction!" airily.
"And what of her? Lady Swansdown?"
"Of her! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that by this time it must be in tatters. Give up thinking about that. Ah! here is my beloved girl again!" He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as he sees Joyce advancing in his direction. "DearJoyce!" beaming on her, "who shall say there is nothing in animal magnetism. Here I have been just talking about you to Dysart, and telling him what a lost soul I feel when you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, you appear before me."
"Why aren't you playing tennis?" demands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel disregard of this flowery speech.
"Because I was waiting for you."
"Well, I'll beat you," says she, "I always do."
"Not if you play on my side," reproachfully.
"What! Have you for apartner! Nonsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn't dream of that. Why it is as much as ever you can do to put the ball over the net."
"'Twas ever thus,'" quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. "The sincerest worship gains only scorn and contumely. But never mind! the day will come!—--"
"To an end," says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence never meant. "That," cheerfully, "is just what I think. If we don't have a game now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look round us."
"Will you play with me?" says Dysart.
"With pleasure. Keep your eye on this near court, and when this game is at an end, call it ours;" she sinks into a chair as she speaks, and Dysart, who is in a silent mood, flings himself on the grass at her feet and falls into a reverie. To be conversational is unnecessary, Dicky Browne is on the spot.
Hotter and hotter grows the sun; the evening comes on apace; a few people from the neighboring houses have dropped in; Mrs. Monkton amongst others, with Tommy in tow. The latter, who is supposed to entertain a strong affection for Lady Baltimore's little son, no sooner, however, sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself up to his keeping. What the attraction is that Mr. Browne has for children has never yet been clearly defined. It is the more difficult to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion about it, in that no child was ever yet left in his sole care for ten minutes without coming to blows, or tears, or a determined attempt at murder or suicide.
His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards this uncertain friend, turns a doubtful eye on Mr. Browne.
"Better come with me, Tommy," says she, "I am going to the gardens to find Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her."
"I'll stay with Dicky," says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr. Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory "Wough" as he does so. "He'll tell me a story."
"Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton," says the latter, when he has recovered a little from the shock—Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficient amount of adipose matter about him to make his descent felt. "I'll promise to be careful. Nothing French I assure you. Nothing that could shock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. My tales are always strictly moral."
"Well, Tommy, begood!" says Mrs. Monkton with a last imploring glance at her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in a wild wrestling match with his new friend. With deep forebodings his mother leaves him and goes upon her way. Passing Joyce, she says in a low whisper:
"Keep an eye on Tommy."
"Both eyes if you like," laughing. "But Dicky, in spite of his evil reputation, seldom goes to extremes."
"Tommy does, however," says Mrs. Monkton tritely.
"Well—I'll look after him."
And so perhaps she might have done, had not a light step sounding just behind her chair at this moment caused her to start—to look round—to forget all but what she now sees.
He is a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and big indeed, in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, his forehead massive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size, but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate. He is rather like his sister, Lady Baltimore, and yet so different from her in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely there torments the observer.
"Why!" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclamation and means nothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. "I didn't know you were here!" She has half risen.
"Neither did I—how d'ye do, Dysart?—until half an hour ago. Won't you shake hands?"
He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzical light in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see that he finds amusement in the fact that the girl has been so much impressed by his unexpected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usual act of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, been dead to everything but his coming.
"You came——" falters she, stammering a little, as she notes her mistake.
"By the mid-day train; I gave myself just time to snatch a sandwich from Purdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in the garden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game with me."
"Oh! I am so sorry, but I have promised it to——"
The words are out of her mouth before she has realized the fact that Dysart is listening—Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching every expression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at him confused, lovely.
"I didn't mean—that!" says she, trying to smile indifferently, "Only——"
"Don't!" says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange and decided a way that it renders her silent. "You mustn't mind me," says he, a second later, in his usual calm tone. "I know you and Beauclerk are wonderful players. You can give me a game later on."
"A capital arrangement," says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into a chair beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace with himself and his world, "especially as I shall have to go in presently to write some letters for the evening post."
He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of his fingers together, and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops of them.
"How busy you always are," says she, slowly.
"Well you see, this appointment, or, rather, the promise of it, keeps me going. Tremendous lot of interest to work up. Good deal of bother, you know, but then, beggars—eh?—can't be choosers, can they? And I should like to go to the East; that is, if——"
He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. She blushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick it up again. Mr. Beauclerk makes another little attempt, and so manages that his hand meets hers. There is a slight, an almost benevolent pressure.
Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they could have seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks a little pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy.
"I've been down at that old place of mine," goes on Mr. Beauclerk. "Terrible disrepair—take thousands to put it in any sort of order. And where's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answer now-a-days. Eh, Dysart?"
"There is an answer, however," says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him.
"Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet."
"Oh, yes, I think you have," says Dysart, quite politely, but grimly, nevertheless.
"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers amineor an African diamond-field?"
"Or an heiress," says Dysart, incidentally.
"Hah! lucky dog, that comes home toyou," says Beauclerk, giving him a playful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, as Dysart still sits upon the grass.
"Not to me."
"No? Youwillbe modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, I assure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me—it does, indeed. It sounds like one'sdutyto restore it, and still——"
"There are better things than even an old place," says Dysart.
"Ah! you haven't one you see," cries Beauclerk, with the utmost geniality. "If you had——I really think if you had you would understand that it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin."
"I said there were better things than old places," says Dysart doggedly, never looking in his direction. "And if there are,makea sacrifice."
"Pouf! Lucky fellows like you—gay soldier lads—with hearts as light as sunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made. There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimesthink!"
Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord that wounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him.Whatwas it Barbara had said? "He was a man who would alwaysthink,"—is he thinking now—even now—at this moment?—is he weighing matters in his mind?
"Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them; "thatgame is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get our scalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?"
"No thanks."
"Afraid?" gaily.
"Of you—no," smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be taken as the genuine article anywhere.
"Of Miss Kavanagh; then?"
For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meet those of Joyce.
"Perhaps," says he.
"A poor compliment to me," says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh that always ringssosoftly. "Well, never mind; I forgive you. Get a good partner, my dear fellow, andshemay pull you through. You see I depend entirely upon mine," with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. "There's Miss Maliphant now—she'd make a good partner if you like."
"I shouldn't," says Dysart, immovably.
"She plays a good game, I can tell you."
"So do you," says Dysart.
"Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic," says Beauclerk laughing. "I believe you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why you won't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, I don't say but that you would have a chance of beating me."
"I shall beat you by myself or not at all," says Dysart suddenly, and for the first time looking fair at him.
"A single, you mean?"
"Yes, a single."
"Well—we shall see," says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Come along, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart is too lazy to face us."
"The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember," says she, glancing at Dysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes.
"Ialwaysremember," says he, with a rather ambiguous smile. What is he remembering now? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she follows Beauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below.
The evening has grown very still. The light wind that all day long has sung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countings of the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another sound arises. It isnotthe voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommy in full cry, and mad with a desire to gain the better of the argument now going on between him and Mr. Browne. Mr. Browne is still, however, holding his own. He generally does. His voice grows eloquent.Allcan hear.
"I shall tell my story, Tommy, in my own way, or I shall not tell it at all!" The dignity that Mr. Browne throws into this threat is hardly to be surpassed.
"Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge."
"Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge."
"Tisn't right," says Tommy.
"Ithink it is. If you kindly listen to it once again, and give your entire attention to it, you will see how faulty is the ignorant conclusion to which you have come."
"I'm not one bit ignorant," says Tommy indignantly. "Nurse says I'm the dickens an' all at my Bible, and that I know Genesis better'nshedoes."
"And a very engaging book it is too," says Mr. Browne, "but it isn't everything. Whatyouwant to study, my good boy, is natural history. You are very ignorant about that, at all events."
"A cowcouldn'tdo it," says Tommy.
"History says she can. Now, listen again. It is a grand old poem, and I am grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that you refuse to accept it as one of the gems of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark Ages. Are you ready?
"'Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty,The cow ran up the plum-tree.Half-a-crown to fetch her——'"
"'Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty,The cow ran up the plum-tree.Half-a-crown to fetch her——'"
"Shedidn't—'twas thecat," cries Tommy.
"Not inmystory," says Mr. Browne, mildly but firmly.
"A cowcouldn'tgo up a plum-tree," indignantly.
"She could inmystory," persists Mr. Browne, with all the air of one who, even to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent to go against the dictates of his conscience.
"Shecouldn't, I tell you," roars Tommy, now thoroughly incensed. "She couldn'tclimb. Her horns would stick in the branches. She'd be tooheavy!"
"I admit, Thomas," says Mr. Browne gravely, "that your argument sounds as though there were some sense in it. But who am I that I should dare to disbelieve ancient history? It is unsafe to throw down old landmarks, to blow up the bulwarks of our noble constitution. Beware, Tommy! never tread on the tail of Truth. It may turn and rend you."
"Her name isn't Truth," says Tommy. "Our cow's name is Biddy, and she never ran up a tree in her life."
"She's young," says Mr. Browne. "She'll learn. So areyou—you'lllearn. And remember this, my boy, always respect old legends. A disregard for them will so unsettle you that finally you will find yourself—at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. I suppose," sadly, "that you are even so far gone in scepticism as to doubt the glorious truth of the moon's being made of green cheese?"
"Father says that's nonsense," says Tommy promptly, and with an air of triumph, "and father always knows."
"I blush for your father," says Mr. Browne with increasing melancholy. "Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well; we will let the question of the moon go by, though I suppose you know, Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Cheshire."
"No, I don't," says Tommy, with a militant glare. "There was once a Cheshire cat; there never was a Cheshire moon."
"I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Cheshire cheese," says Mr. Browne severely. "Don't you see the connection? But never mind. Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to our cow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events,tryto believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up and down, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, that long-suffering old plum-tree."
"She never did it," says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly in tears. "I've books—I've books, and 'tisn't inanyof them."
"It is inmybook," says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed of himself.
"I don't believe you everreada book," screams Tommy furiously. "'Twas the cat—the cat—the cat!"
"No; 'twas the horned cow," says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone, whereat Tommy goes for him.
There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks, the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant service. There would indeed have been a serious case of assault and battery for the next Court day, had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene.
"Oh, Tommy!" cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as he has his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air, kicking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to prove identification. And—"Oh, Dicky," says, she again, "howcouldyou torment him so, when you know how easy it is to excite him. See what a state he is in!"
"And what about me?" demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. "Is no sympathy to be shown me? See what a stateI'min. I'm black and blue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death!"
"Nonsense! you are all right, but look athim! Oh! Tommy, what a terrible boy you are. And you promised me if I brought you, that you——Just look at his clothes!"
"Look atmine!" says Mr. Browne. "My best hat is done for, and I'm afraid to examine my trousers.Youmight tell me if there is a big rent anywhere. No? Eh? Well—if you won't I must only risk it. But I feel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, Tommy, that's part of another old story. I'll tell you about it some day."
"Come with me, Tommy," says his mother, with awful severity. She holds out her hand to her son, who is still glaring at Dicky with an undying ferocity. "You are a naughty boy, and I'm sure your father will be angry with you when he hears of this."
"Oh, but he must not hear of it, must he, Tommy?" says Mr. Browne, with decision, appealing to his late antagonist as airily, as utterly withoutarrière penséeas though no unpleasant passages have occurred between them. "It's awfully good of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, but really on the whole I think——"
"It is Tommy I want," says Mrs. Monkton still with a meaning eye.
"Where Tommy goes, I go," says Mr. Browne, firmly. "We are wedded to each other for the day. Nothing shall part us! Neither law nor order. Just now we are going down to the lake to feed the swans with the succulent bun. Will you come with us?"
"You are very uncertain, Dicky," says Mrs. Monkton, regarding Mr. Browne with a gravity that savors of disapproval. "How shall I be sure that if you take him to the lake you will not let him drown himself?"
"He is far more likely to drown me," says Mr. Browne. "Come along, Tommy, the biscuits are in the hall, and the lake a quarter of a mile away. The day waneth; let us haste—let us haste!"
"Where has Dicky gone?" asks Joyce, who has just returned victorious from her game.
"To the lake with Tommy. I have been imploring him not to drown my son," says Mrs. Monkton with a rather rueful smile.
"Oh, he won't do that. Dicky is erratic, but pretty safe, for all that. And he is fond of Tommy."
"He teases him, however, beyond endurance."
"That is because hedoeslike him."
"A strange conclusion to arrive at, surely," says Dysart, looking at her.
"No. If he didn't like him, he wouldn't take the trouble," says she, nonchalantly. She is evidently a littledistrait. She looks as though she wanted something.
"You won your game?" says her sister, smiling at her.
"Yes, quite a glorious victory. They had only two games out of the six; and you know Miss Connor plays very well."
"Where is Mr. Beauclerk?"
"Gone into the house to write some letters and telegrams."
"Norman, do you mean?" asks Lady Baltimore, coming up at this moment, her basket full of flowers, and minus the little son and the heiress; "he has just gone into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. You know she sings remarkably well, and that last song of Milton Wettings suits her so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. Have you had a game, Joyce?"
"Yes, and won it," says Joyce, smiling back at her, though her face has paled a little.Hadshe won it?
"Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wants them for the dinner-table," says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried note has crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly. Lord Baltimore and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdown with a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque.
Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdown displaying the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her.
"Let me carry that burden for you," says he, laying his hand upon the basket of flowers.
"No, oh! no, thank you," says Lady Baltimore, glancing up at him for just a moment, with a little curious expression in her eyes. "I have carried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No; go back to the lawn to Lady Swansdown—see; she is quite alone at this moment. You will be doing me a real service if you will look after our guests."
"As you will," says Baltimore, coldly.
He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left.
Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way—she seems, indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life of every party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height, and her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings gaily. With the advent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him.
"We postponedonegame, I think," says she. "Well—shall we play the next?"
"I am sorry," says he, deliberately, "but I think not." His eyes are on the ground.
"No?" says she, coloring warmly. There is open surprise in her glance. That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyond belief.
"You must forgive me," says he, deliberately still. He had sworn to himself that he would not play second fiddle onthisoccasion at all events, and he holds himself to his word. "But I feel as if I could not play to-day. I should disgrace you. Let me get you another partner. Captain Grant is out there, he——"
"Thank you. I shall be able to provide myself with a partner when I want one," interrupts she, haughtily, turning abruptly away.
"Nature has sometimes made a fool."
"Nature has sometimes made a fool."
The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with the cornet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroom all to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Such unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why they couldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question that fills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey down from Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players of them disconsolate.
The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms right and left of the ballroom, but fail to kill the melancholy sweetness of the dripping fountains or the perfume of the hundred flowers that gave their sleeping draughts to all those who chose to come and inhale them. Mild draughts that please the senses without stealing them.
The sounds even penetrate to the library, where Joyce is standing before the low fire, that even in this July evening burns upon the hearth, fastening her long gloves. She had got down before the others, and now, finding the room empty, half wishes herself back again upstairs. But she is so young, so full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around her, that she had hurried over her dressing, and, with the first dismal sounds of the toning, had turned her steps its way.
The library seems cold to her, bare, unfriendly. Had she expected to meet somebody there before her—somebody who had promised to get a fresh tie in a hurry, but who had possibly forgotten all about it in the joy of an after-dinner cigar?
It seems a long time since that first day when she had been startled by his sudden reappearance at the Court. A long,longtime. Soon this last visit of hers to the Court must come to an end. The Baltimores will be going abroad in a fortnight or so—and he with them. The summer is waning—dreary autumn coming. He will go—and——
A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on her, toning down to rather a too cruel a degree the bright expectancy of her face. He hadsaidhe would come, and now——She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion on the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, half consciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn up her arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers.
Certainly he had said he would be here. "Early you know. Before the others can get down." A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and now that the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon the ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with the lamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein to her thoughts.
They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. During the past week had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning. He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, had loitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side, whispered many things—looked so very many more. But——
There were other times, other opportunities for philandering (shedoes not give it this unpleasant name); how has he spent them?—A vague thought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain, good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that he is very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joyce may reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often falls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments during the past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the scene of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has had a good deal to do with them. But then—"That poor, good girl you know!" Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit. "Sucha good girl; and so—er—don'tyou know!" He was certainly always a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, looking back on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confess to herself that the great "er" had had to express everything. Contempt, dislike, kindly disdain—he was alwayskindly—he made quite a point ofthat. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after this retrospective glance, "er" is the greatest word in the English language!
And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggests a frown. It helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a lame one. It is kindly, as giving time. It is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It——In fact what is it itcannotdo?
Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. She has placed her hands on the table behind her, and thus compelled to lean a little forward, stands studying the carpet without seeing it. A sense of anger, ofshameagainst herself is troubling her. If he shouldnotbe in earnest! If he should not—like her as she likes him!
She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by some thought. "Like"isthe word. It has gone no deeper yet. Itshallnot. He is handsome, he has his charm, but if she is not all the world to him, why, he shall not be all the world toher. If it is money he craves, for the restoration of that old home of his, why money let it be. But there, shall not be the two things, the desire of one for filthy lucre, the desire of the other for love. He shall decide.
She has grown very pale. She has drawn herself up to her full height, and her lips are pressed together. And now a strange thought comes to her. If—ifshe loved him, could she bear thus to analyze him. To take him to pieces, to dissect him as it were? Once again that feeling of fear oppresses her. Is she so cold, so deliberate in herself that she suspects others of coldness. After all—if he does love her—if he only hesitates because——
A step outside the door!
Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the walls from floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. She gives a little touch to her gown. And now is sitting in a lounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respects the very picture of unconsciousness. It is—it must be——
It isn't, however.
Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion that generally plays old Harry with the hinges and blows the ornaments off the nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and the liveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth, are of goodly proportions.
"Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He has been reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously for the past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphatic nuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary, proving as a rule a bore.
"That will do, Dicky! Weallknow about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing.
"Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a stage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Thoughfleshpot of Egypt!"
He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative.
"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired ofmakingpeople tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed of it."
"Wouldhe? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I can say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. Hewillbe sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced a new edition. But for my part, I believe itisin the book. Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the public mind."
"Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about them in the book from start to finish."
"No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. "Fleshpots—pots—hot pots; hotpotting! Hah!" He draws himself together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up,'" says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own."
"Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrown away upon the receiver of it.
"D'ye say so! By Jove! And very neat too! Didn't think I had it in me. After all to write a book is an easy matter; here am I, who never thought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the most exquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tell you what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and my compliments you know. Horrid thing to bemeanabout anything, and if I can help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good turn. Eh?"
"I suppose you think you are amusing," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him with a critical eye.
"My good child, Iknowthat expression," says Mr. Browne, amiably. "I know it by heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. It's politer now-a-days to look things than to say them, but wait awhile and you'llsee. Come; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign that he'll be delighted with my suggestion, and put it into his next edition without delay. No charge! Given away! The lot for a penny-three-farthings. In fact, I make it a present to him. Noble, eh? Give it to him fornothing!"
"About its price," says Miss Kavanagh thoughtfully.
"Think you so? You are dull to-night, Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass you by without warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that has flowed from my brain is a priceless one. Never mind the door—he's not coming yet. Attend to me."
"Who'snot coming?" demands she, the more angrily in that she is growing miserably aware of the brilliant color that is slowly but surely bedecking her cheeks.
"Never mind! It's a mere detail; attend tomeand I entreat you," says Mr. Browne, who is now quite in his element, having made sure of the fact that she is expecting somebody. It doesn't matter in the least who to Mr. Browne, expectation is the thing wherein to catch the embarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forthwith he sets himself gaily to the teazing of her.
"Attend towhat?" says she with a little frown.
"If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, with that care that I should have expected from you, you would have remembered that forty odd years the Israelites hankered after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which I have been alluding. Now I appeal to you, as a sensible girl, would anybody hanker after anything for forty odd years (veryodd years as it happens), unless it was to their advantage to get it; unless, indeed, the object pursued waspriceless!"
"You ask too much ofthissensible girl," says Miss Kavanagh, with a carefully manufactured yawn. "Really, dear Dicky, you must forgive me if I say I haven't gone into it as yet, and that I don't suppose I shall everseethe necessity for going into it."
"But, my good child, you must see that those respectable people, the Israelites, wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for forty years."
"That's just what Idon'tsee. There are such a number of fools everywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell."
"This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. "To bring you face to face with facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do you dare to doubt for one moment that I speak aught but the truth? Will you deny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the——"
"Ha—ha—ha," laughs Joyce ironically. "I wish she could hear you. Your life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase."
"Mere slip. Serpent ofoldNile. Doesn't matter in the least," says Mr. Browne airily, "because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My dear girl, follow out the argument. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And—you're another."
"Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me."
"Where does the slang come in? You're another fleshpot. I meant to say—or convey—becauseweall hanker after you."
"Do you?" with rising wrath. "May I ask what hankering means?"
"You had better not," says Mr. Browne mysteriously. "It was one of the rites of Ancient Kem!"
"Now there isonething, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling over. "I won't be called names. I won't be called afleshpot. You'll draw the line there if you please."
"My dear girl, why not? Those delectable pots must have beenbric-à-bracof the mostrecherchédescription. Of a most delicate shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up—not to be hoped for in these prosaic days."
"Nonsense," indignantly. She is fairly roused now, and Mr. Browne regarding her with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to have his reward at last. "You know very well that the term 'fleshpots' referred to what wasinthe pots, not to the pots themselves."
"That's all you know about it. That's where your fatal ignorance comes in, my poor Joyce," says he, with immense compassion. "Search your Bible from cover to cover, and I defy you to find a single mention of the contents of those valuable bits ofbric-à-brac. Of fleshpots—heavy emphasis on thepots—and ten fingers down at once if you please—we read continually as being hankered after by the Israelites, who then, as now, were evidently avid collectors."
"You've been having champagne, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him with a judicial eye.
"So have you. But I can't see what that excellent beverage has got to do with the ancient Jews. Keep to the point. Did you ever hear that they expressed a longing for thefleshof Egypt? No. So far so good. The pots themselves were the objects of their admiration. During that remarkable run of theirs through the howling wilderness they, one and all, to aman, betrayed the true æsthetic tendency. They raved incessantly for the girl—I beg pardon—thelandthey had left behind them. The land that contained those priceless jars."
"I wonder how you can be so silly," says Miss Kavanagh disdainfully. Will henevergo away! If he stays, and if—the other—comes——
"Silly! my good child.Howsilly! Why everything goes to prove the probability of my statement. The taste for articles ofvertu—for antiquities—for fossils of all descriptions that characterized them then, has lived to the present day.Thenthey worried after old china, and who shall deny that now they have an overwhelming affection for old clo'."
"Well; your folly doesn't concern me," says Miss Kavanagh, gathering up her skirts with an evident intention of shaking off the dust of his presence from her feet and quitting him.
"I am sorry that you should consider it folly," says Mr. Browne sorrowfully. "I should not have said so much about it perhaps but that I wanted to prove to you that in callingyoua fleshpot I only meant to——"
"I won't be called that," interrupts Miss Kavanagh angrily. "It'shorrid! It makes me feel quitefat! Now, once for all, Dicky, I forbid it. I won't have it."
"I don't see how you are to get out of it," says Mr. Browne, shaking his head and hands in wild deprecation. "Fleshpots were desirable articles—you're another—ergo—you're a fleshpot. See the argument?"
"No I don't," indignantly. "I see only you—and—I wish Ididn't."
"Very rude;very!" says Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Yet I entreat thee not to leave me without one other word. Follow up the argument—do. Give me an answer to it."
"Not one," walking to the door.
"That's because it is unanswerable," says Mr. Browne complacently. "You are beaten, you——"
There is a sound outside the door; Joyce with her hand on the handle of it, steps back and looks round nervously at Dicky. A quick color has dyed her cheeks; instinctively she moves a little to one side and gives a rapid glance into a long mirror.
"I don't think really he could find a fault," says Mr. Browne mischievously. "I should think there will be a good deal of hankering going on to-night."
Miss Kavanagh has only just barely time to wither him, when Beauclerk comes hurriedly in.
"Thinkest thou there are no serpents in the worldBut those who slide along the grassy sod,And sting the luckless foot that presses them?There are, who in the path of social lifeDo bask their spotted skins in fortune's son,And sting the soul."
"Thinkest thou there are no serpents in the worldBut those who slide along the grassy sod,And sting the luckless foot that presses them?There are, who in the path of social lifeDo bask their spotted skins in fortune's son,And sting the soul."
"Oh, there you are," cries he jovially. "Been looking for you everywhere. The music has begun; first dance just forming. Gay and lively quadrille, you know—country ball wouldn't know itself without a beginning like that. Come; come on."
Nothing can exceed hisbonhomie. He tucks her hand in the most delightfully genial, appropriative fashion under his arm, and with a beaming nod to Mr. Browne (he never forgets to be civil to anybody) hurries Joyce out of the room, leaving the astute Dicky gazing after him with mingled feelings in his eye.
"Deuce and all of a smart chap," says Mr. Browne to himself slowly. "But he'll fall through some day for all that, I shouldn't wonder."
Meantime Mr. Beauclerk is still carrying on a charming recitative.
"Such a bore!" he is saying, with heartfelt disgust in his tone. It is really wonderful how he canalwaysdo it. There is never a moment when he flags. He is for ever up to time as it were, and equal to the occasion. "I'm afraid you rather misunderstood me just now, when I said I'd been looking for you—but the fact is, Browne's such an ass, if he knew we had made an appointment to meet in the library, he'd have brayed the whole affair to any and every one."
"Was there an appointment?" says Miss Kavanagh, who is feeling a little unsettled—a little angry with herself perhaps.
"No—no," with a delightful acceptation of her rebuke. "You are right as ever. I was wrong. But then, you see, it gave me a sort of joy to believe that our light allusion to a possible happy half-hour before the turmoil of the dance began might mean somethingmore—something——Ah! well never mind! Men are vain creatures; and after all it would have been a happy half-hour to meonly!"
"Would it?" says she with a curious glance at him.
"Youknow that!" says he, with the full and earnest glance he can turn on at a second's notice without the slightest injury to heart or mind.
"I don't indeed."
"Oh well, you haven't time to think about it perhaps. I found you very fully occupied when—at last—I was able to get to the library. Browne we all know is a very—er—lively companion—if rather wanting in the higher virtues."
"'At last,'" says she quoting his words. She turns suddenly and looks at him, a world of inquiry in her dark eyes. "I hate pretence," says she curtly, throwing up her young head with a haughty movement. "You said you would be in the library at such an hour, and though I did notpromiseto meet you there, still, as I happened to be dressed earlier than I believed possible, I came down, and you——? Where were you?"
There is a touch of imperiousness in that last question that augurs badly for a false wooer; but the imperiousness suits her. With her pretty chin uptilted, and that little scornful curve upon her lips, and her lovely eyes ablaze, she looks indeed "a thing of beauty." Beauclerk regards her with distinct approbation. After all—had she evenhalfthe money that the heiress possesses,whata wife she would make. And it isn't decided yet one way or the other; sometimes Fate is kind. The day may come when this delectable creature may fall to his portion.
"I can see you are thinking hard things of me," says he reproachfully; "but you little know how I have been passing the time I had so been looking forward to. Time to be passed withyou. That old Lady Blake—shewouldkeep me maundering to her about that son of hers in the Mauritius;youknow he and I were at St. Petersburg together. I couldn't get away. You blame me—but what was I to do? An old woman—unhappy——"
"Oh no. You wereright," says Joyce quickly. How good he is after all, and how unjustly she had been thinking of him. So kind, so careful of the feelings of a tiresome old woman. How few men are like him. How few would so far sacrifice themselves.
"Ah, you see it like that!" says, Mr. Beauclerk, not triumphantly, but so modestly that the girl's heart goes out to him even more. Howgeneroushe is! Not a word of rebuke to her for her vile suspicion of him.
"Why you put me into good spirits again," says he laughing gaily. "We must make haste, I fear, if we would save the first dance."
"Oh yes—come," says Joyce going quickly forward. Evidently he is going to ask her for the first dance! Thatshowsthat he prefers her to——
"I'm so glad you have been able to sympathize with me about my last disappointment," says Beauclerk. "If you hadn't—if you had had even one hard thought of me, I don't knowhowI should have been able to endure what still lies before me. I am almost raging with anger, but when one's sister is in question——"
"You mean?" say Joyce a little faintly.
"Oh, you haven't heard. I am so annoyed myself about it, that I fancied everybody knew. You know I hoped that you would have been good enough to give me the first dance, but when Isabel asked me to dance it with that dreadful daughter of Lady Dunscombe's, whatcouldI do, now I ask you?" appealing to her with hands and eyes. "WhatcouldI do?"
"Obey, of course," says she with an effort, but a successful one. "You must hurry too, if you want to secure Miss Dunscombe."
"Ah; what a misfortune it is to be the brother of one's hostess," says he, with a sort of comic despair. His eyes are centred on her face, reading her carefully, and with much secret satisfaction;—rapid as that slight change upon her face had been, he had seen and noted it.
"It couldn't possibly be a misfortune to be Lady Baltimore's brother," says she smiling. "On the contrary, you are to be congratulated."
"Not just at this moment surely!"
"At this or any other moment. Ah!"—as they enter the ballroom. "The room is already fuller than I thought. Engaged, Mr. Blake?" to Lord Blake's eldest son. "No, not for this. Yes, with pleasure."
She makes a little charming inclination of her head to Beauclerk, and laying her hand on Mr. Blake's arm, moves away with him to where a set is already forming at the end of the room. It is without enthusiasm she takes her place with Dysart and one of the O'Donovan girls asvis-à-vis, and prepares to march, retreat, twist and turn with the best of them.
"A dull old game," she is irreverently terming the quadrilles—that massing together of inelegant movements so dear to the bucolic mind—that saving clause for the old maids and the wall-flowers; when a little change of position shows her the double quartette on the right hand side of the magnificent ballroom.
She had been half through an unimportant remark to Mr. Blake, but she stops short now and forgets to finish it. Her color comes and goes. The sides are now prancing throughtheirperformance, and she and her partner are standing still. Perhaps—perhapsshe was mistaken; with all these swaying idiots on every side of her she might well have mixed up one man's partner with another; and Miss Dunscombe (she had caught a glimpse of her awhile ago) was surely in that set on the right hand side.
She stoops forward, regardless—oblivious—of her partner's surprised glance, who has just been making a very witty remark, and being a rather smart young man, accustomed to be listened to, is rather taken aback by her open indifference.
A little more forward she leans; yes,now—the couples part—for one moment the coast lies clear. She can see distinctly. Miss Dunscombe is indeed dancing in that set butnotas Mr. Beauclerk's partner. Miss Maliphant has secured that enviablerôle.
Even as Joyce gazes, Beauclerk, turning his head, meets her earnest regard. He returns it with a beaming smile. Miss Maliphant, whose duty it is at this instant to advance and retire and receive without the support of a chaperone the attacks of the bold, bad man opposite, having moved out of Beauclerk's sight, the latter, with an expressive glance directed at Joyce, lifts his shoulders forlornly, and gives a serio-comic shrug of his shoulders. All to show now bored a being he is at finding himself thus the partner of the ugly heiress! It is all done in a second. An inimitable bit of acting—but unpleasant.
Joyce draws herself up. Her eyes fall away from his; unless the distance is too far, the touch of disdain that lies in them should have disconcerted even Mr. Beauclerk. Perhaps it has!
"Our turn?" says she, giving her partner a sudden beautiful glance full of fire—of life—of something that he fails to understand, but doesnotfail to consider charming. She smiles; she grows radiant. She is a different being from a moment ago. How could he—Blake—have thought her stupid. How she takes up every word—and throws new meaning into it—andwhata laugh she has! Low-sweet—merry—music to its core!
Beauclerk in his turn finds a loop-hole through which to look at her, and is conscious of a faint feeling of chagrin. She oughtn't to have taken it like that. To be a little pensive—a little sad—that would have shewn a right spirit. Well—the night is long. He can play his game here and there. There is plenty of time in which to regain lost ground with one—to gain fresh ground with the other. Joyce will forgive him—when she hearshisversion of it.