IN WHICH EVERYONE FEELS THE AFTER EFFECT OF
THE PICNIC
Meanwhile the picnic remained, for others besides Maradick, an interpretation. Lady Gale sat on the evening of the following day watching the sun sink behind the silver birch. She had dressed for dinner earlier than usual, and now it was a quarter to eight and she was still alone in the gradually darkening room.
Mrs. Lester came in. She was dressed in pale blue, and she moved with that sure confidence that a woman always has when she knows that she is dressed with perfect correctness.
“My dear,” she said, bending down and kissing Lady Gale, “I’m perfectly lovely to-night, and it isn’t the least use telling me that it’s only vanity, because I know perfectly well I’m the real right thing, as Henry James would say if he saw me.”
“I can’t see, dear,” said Lady Gale, “but from the glimpse I’ve got I like the dress.”
“Oh, it’s perfection! The only thing is that it seems such a waste down here! There’s no one who cares in the least whether you’re a fright or no.”
“There’s at any rate, Fred,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, Fred!” said Mrs. Lester scornfully. “He would never see if you stuck it right under his nose. He can dress his people in his novels, but he never has the remotest notion what his wife’s got on.”
“He knows more than you think,” said Lady Gale.
“Oh, I know Fred pretty well; besides,” Mrs. Lester added, smiling a little, “he doesn’t deserve to have anything done for him just now. He’s been very cross and nasty these few days.”
She was sitting on a stool at Lady Gale’s feet with her hands clasped round her knees, her head was flung back and her eyes shining; she looked rather like a cross, peevish child who had been refused something that it wanted.
Lady Gale sighed for a moment and looked out into the twilight; in the dark blue of the sky two stars sparkled. “Take care of it, dear,” she said.
“Of what?” said Mrs. Lester, looking up.
“Love, when you’ve got it.” Lady Gale put her hand out and touched Mrs. Lester’s arm. “You know perfectly well that you’ve got Fred’s. Don’t play with it.”
“Fred cares about his books,” Mrs. Lester said slowly. “I don’t think that he cares the very least about me.”
“Oh, you know that’s untrue. You’re cross just now and so is he, and both of you imagine things. But down in your hearts you are absolutely sure of it.”
Mrs. Lester shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m afraid that I may be tiresome,” said Lady Gale gently, “but, my dear, I’ve lived such a long time and I know that it’s sufficiently rare to get the right man. You’ve got him, and you’re so certain that he’s right that you think that you can play with it, and it’s dangerous.”
“I’m not a bit certain,” said Mrs. Lester.
“Oh, you are, of course you are. You know that Fred’s devoted to you and you’re devoted to Fred. Only it’s rather dull that everything should go along so soberly and steadily, and you think that you’ll have some fun by quarrelling and worrying him. You’re piqued sometimes because you don’t think that he pays you enough attention and you imagine that other men will pay you more, and he is very patient.”
“Oh, you don’t know how annoying he can be sometimes,” said Mrs. Lester, shaking her head. “When he shuts himself up in his stupid books and isn’t aware that I’m there at all.”
“Of course I know,” said Lady Gale. “All men are annoying and so are all women. Anyone that we’ve got to live with is bound to be; that’s the whole point of rubbing along. Marriage seems stupid enough and dull enough and annoying enough, but as a matter of fact it would be ever so much worse if the man wasn’t there at all; yes, however wrong the man may be. We’ve got to learn to stick it; whether theitis a pimple on one’s nose or a husband.”
“Oh, it’s so easy to talk.” Mrs. Lester shook her shoulders impatiently. “One has theories and it’s very nice to spread them out, but in practice it’s quite different. Fred’s been perfectly beastly these last few days.”
“Well,” said Lady Gale, “don’t run a risk of losing him. I mean that quite seriously. One thinks that one’s got a man so safely that one can play any game one likes, and then suddenly the man’s gone; and then, my dear, you’re sorry.”
“You’re dreadfully serious to-night. I wanted to be amused, and instead of that you speak as if I were on the verge of something dreadful. I’m not a bit. It’s only Fred that’s cross.”
“Of course I don’t think you’re on the verge of anything dreadful.” Lady Gale bent down and kissed her. “It’s only that Treliss is a funny place. It has its effect—well, it’s rather hard to say—but on our nerves, I suppose. We are all of us excited and would do things, perhaps, here that we shouldn’t dream of doing anywhere else. Things look differently here.” She paused a moment, then she added, “It’s all rather worrying.”
“Dear, I’m a pig,” said Mrs. Lester, leaning over and kissing her. “Don’t bother about me and my little things. But why are you worrying? Is it Tony?”
“Well, I suppose it is,” said Lady Gale slowly; “it’s quite silly of me, but we’re all of us rather moving in the dark. Nobody knows what anyone else is doing. And then there’s Alice.”
“What exactly has she got to do with it?” asked Mrs. Lester.
“My dear, she has everything.” Lady Gale sighed. You must have heard when you were in town that she was, more or less, ‘allotted’ to Tony. Of course it hadn’t actually come to any exact words, but it was very generally understood. I myself hadn’t any doubt about the matter. They were to come down here to fix it all up. As a matter of fact, coming down here has undone the whole thing.”
“Yes, of course I’d heard something,” said Mrs. Lester. “As a matter of fact I had been wondering rather. Of course I could see that it wasn’t, so to speak, coming off.”
“No. Something’s happened to Tony since he came down, and to Alice too, for that matter. But at first I didn’t worry; in fact, quite between ourselves, I was rather glad. In town they were neither of them very keen about it; it was considered a suitable thing and they were going to fall in with it, and they were quite nice enough, both of them, to have carried it on all right afterwards. But that wasn’t the kind of marriage that I wanted for Tony. He’s too splendid a fellow to be lost and submerged in that kind of thing; it’s too ordinary, too drab. And so, when he came down here, I saw at once that something had happened, and I was glad.”
“I understand,” said Mrs. Lester, her eyes shining.
“But I asked him nothing. That has always been our plan, that he shall tell me if he wants to, but otherwise I leave it alone. And it has worked splendidly. He has always told me. But this time it is rather different. As soon as he told me anything I should have to act. If he told me who the girl was I should have to see her, and then you see, I must tell my husband. As soon as I know about it I become the family, and Ihatethe family.”
Mrs. Lester could feel Lady Gale’s hand quiver on her arm. “Oh, my dear, you don’t know what it has always been. Before Tony came life was a lie, a lie from the very beginning. I was forced to eat, to sleep, to marry, to bear children, as the family required. Everything was to be done with one eye on the world and another on propriety. I was hot, impetuous in those days, now I am getting old and calm enough, God knows; I have learnt my lesson, but oh! it took some learning. Rupert was like the rest; I soon saw that there was no outlet there. But then Tony came, and there was something to live for. I swore that he should live his life as he was meant to live it, no square pegs in round holes for him, and so I have watched and waited and hoped. And now, at last, romance has come to him. I don’t know who she is; but you’ve seen, we’ve all seen, the change in him, and he shall seize it and hold it with both hands, only, you see, I must not know. As soon as I know, the thing becomes official, and then there’s trouble. Besides, I trust him. I know that he won’t do anything rotten because he’s Tony. I was just a little bit afraid that he might do something foolish, but I’ve put Mr. Maradick there as guard, and the thing’s safe.”
“Mr. Maradick?” asked Mrs. Lester.
“Yes. Tony’s devoted to him, and he has just that stolid matter-of-fact mind that will prevent the boy from doing anything foolish. Besides, I like him. He’s not nearly so stupid as he seems.”
“I don’t think he seems at all stupid,” said Mrs. Lester, “I think he’s delightful. But tell me, if they were neither of them very keen and the thing’s off, why are you worried? Surely it is the very best thing that could possibly happen.”
“Ah! that was before they came down.” Lady Gale shook her head. “Something’s happened to Alice. Since she’s been down here she’s fallen in love with Tony. Yes, wildly. I had been a little afraid of it last week, and then last night she came to me and spoke incoherently about going away and hating Treliss and all sorts of things jumbled up together and then, of course, I saw at once. It is really very strange in a girl like Alice. I used to think that I never knew anyone more self-contained and sensible, but now I’m afraid that she’s in for a bad time.”
“If one only knew,” said Mrs. Lester, “what exactly it is that Tonyisdoing; we’re all in the dark. Of course, Mr. Maradick could tell us.” She paused for a moment, and then she said suddenly: “Have you thought at all of the effect it may be having on Mr. Maradick? All this business.”
“Being with Tony, you mean?” said Lady Gale.
“Yes, the whole affair. He’s middle-aged and solid, of course, but he seems to me to have—how can one put it?—well, considerable inclinations to be young again. You know one can’t be with Tony without being influenced, and heisinfluenced, I think.”
Lady Gale put her hand on the other’s sleeve. “Millie,” she said very earnestly, “look here. Leave him alone. I mean that seriously, dear. He’s not a man to be played with, and it isn’t really worth the candle. You love Fred and Fred loves you; just stick to that and don’t worry about anything else.”
Mrs. Lester laughed. “How perfectly absurd! As if I cared for Mr. Maradick in that kind of way! Why, I’ve only known him a few days, and, anyway, it’s ridiculous!”
“I don’t know,” said Lady Gale, “this place seems to have been playing tricks with all of us. I’m almost afraid of it; I wish we were going away.”
They said no more then, but the conversation had given Lady Gale something more to think about.
Rupert, his father and Alice came in together. It was half-past eight and quite time to go down. Sir Richard was, as usual, impatient of all delay, and so they went down without waiting for Tony and Mr. Lester. The room was not very full when they came in; most people had dined, but the Maradicks were there at their usual table by the window. The two little girls were sitting straight in their chairs with their eyes fixed on their plates.
Mrs. Lester thought that Alice Du Cane looked very calm and self-possessed, and wondered whether Lady Gale hadn’t made a mistake. However, Tony would come in soon and then she would see.
“You can imagine what it’s like at home,” she said as she settled herself in her chair and looked round the room. “Thick, please” (this to the waiter). “Fred never knows when a meal ought to begin, never. He must always finish a page or a sentence or something, and the rest of the world goes hang. Alice, my dear” (she smiled at her across the table), “never marry an author.”
Her blue dress was quite as beautiful as she thought it was, and it suited her extraordinarily well. Mrs. Lester’s dresses always seemed perfectly natural and indeed inevitable, as though there could never, by any possible chance, have been anything at that particular moment that would have suited her better. She did not spend very much money on dress and often made the same thing do for a great many different occasions, but she was one of the best-dressed women in London.
Little Mr. Bannister, the landlord, rolled round the room and spoke to his guests. This was a function that he performed quite beautifully, with an air and a grace that was masterly in its combination of landlord and host.
He flattered Sir Richard, listened to complaints, speculated about the weather, and passed on.
“Oh, dear! it’s so hot!” said Lady Gale, “let’s hurry through and get outside. I shall stifle in here.”
But Sir Richard was horrified at the idea of hurrying through. When your meals are the principal events of the day you don’t intend to hurry through them for anybody.
Then Tony came in. He stopped for a moment at the Maradicks’ table and said something to Maradick. As he came towards his people everyone noticed his expression. He always looked as though he found life a good thing, but to-night he seemed to be alive with happiness. They had seen Tony pleased before, but never anything like this.
“You look as if you’d found something,” said Rupert.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Tony. “No soup, thanks, much too hot for soup. What, father? Yes, I know, but I hurried like anything, only a stud burst and then I couldn’t find a sock, and then—Oh! yes, by the way, Fred says he’s awfully sorry, but he’ll be down in a minute. He never noticed how late it was.”
“He never does,” said Mrs. Lester, moving impatiently.
“You can forgive a man anything if he writes ‘To Paradise,’” said Tony. “Hullo, Alice, where on earth have you been all day? I looked for you this morning and you simply weren’t to be found; skulking in your tent, I suppose. But why women should always miss the best part of the day by sticking in their rooms till lunch——”
“I overslept,” she said, laughing. “It was after the picnic and the thunder and everything.” She smiled across the table quite composedly at him, and Mrs. Lester wondered at her self-possession. She had watched her face when he came in, and she knew now beyond all possible doubt.
“Poor thing,” she said to herself, “she is in for a bad time!”
The Maradicks had left the room, the Gales were almost alone; the silver moon played with the branches of the birch trees, the lights from the room flung pools and rivers of gold across the paths, the flowers slept. Sir Richard finished his “poire Melba” and grunted.
“Let’s have our coffee outside,” said Lady Gale. Outside in the old spot by the wall Tony found Maradick.
“I say,” he whispered, “is it safe, do you suppose, to be so happy?”
“Take it while you can,” said Maradick. “But it won’t be all plain sailing, you mustn’t expect that. And look here, Tony, things are going on very fast. I am in a way responsible. I want to know exactly what you intend to do.”
“To do?” said Tony.
“Yes. I want it put down practically in so many words. I’m here to look after you. Lady Gale trusts me and is watching me. Imustknow!”
“Why! I’m going to marry her of course. You dear old thing, what on earth do you suppose? Of course I don’t exactly know that she cares—in that sort of way, I mean. She didn’t say anything in the garden this afternoon, in so many words. But I think that I understood, though of course a fellow may be wrong; but anyhow, if she doesn’t care now she will in a very little time. But I say, I haven’t told you the best of it all. I believe old Morelli’s awfully keen about it. Anyhow, to-day when we were talking to Miss Minns he spoke to me and said that he was awfully glad that I came, that it was so good for Janet having a young friend, and that he hoped that I would come and see her as often as I could. And then he actually said that I might take her out one afternoon for a row, that she would like it and it would be good for her.”
“I don’t understand him,” said Maradick, shaking his head. “I don’t know what he wants.”
“Oh, it’s obvious enough,” said Tony, “he thinks that it will be a good match. And I think he wants to get rid of her.”
“I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that,” said Maradick; “I wish I did. But to come back to the main question, what do you mean to do?”
“Well,” said Tony, feeling in his pocket, “look here, I’ve written a letter. I didn’t see why one should waste time. I’ll read it to you.” He stepped out of the shadow into the light from one of the windows and read it:—
Dear Miss Morelli,Your father suggested this afternoon that you might come for a row one day. There’s no time like the present, so could you possibly come to-morrow afternoon (Thursday)? I should suggest rather late, say four, because it’s so frightfully hot earlier. I’ll bring tea. If Miss Minns and your father cared to come too it would be awfully jolly.Yours sincerelyAnthony Gale.PS.—Will you be on the beach by Morna Pool about four?
Dear Miss Morelli,
Your father suggested this afternoon that you might come for a row one day. There’s no time like the present, so could you possibly come to-morrow afternoon (Thursday)? I should suggest rather late, say four, because it’s so frightfully hot earlier. I’ll bring tea. If Miss Minns and your father cared to come too it would be awfully jolly.
Yours sincerely
Anthony Gale.
PS.—Will you be on the beach by Morna Pool about four?
“There,” he said as he put it back, “I think that will do. Of course they won’t come. It would be perfectly dreadful if they did. But they won’t. I could see that in his face.”
“Well, and then?”
“Oh, then! Well, I suppose, one day or other, I shall ask her.”
“And after that?”
“Oh, then I shall ask Morelli.”
“And if he says no.”
“But he won’t.”
“I don’t know. I should think it more than likely. You won’t be able to say that your parents have consented.”
“No. I shouldn’t think he’d mind about that.”
“Well, it’s his only daughter.” Maradick laid his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Look here, Tony, we’ve got to go straight. Let’s look at the thing fair and square. If your people and her people consented there’d be no question about it. But they won’t. Your people never will and Morelli’s not likely to. Then you must either give the whole thing up or do it secretly. I say, give it up.”
“Give it up?” said Tony.
“Yes, there’ll be lots of trouble otherwise. Go away, leave for somewhere or other to-morrow. You can think of plenty of explanations. I believe it’s this place as much as anything else that’s responsible for the whole business. Once you’re clear of this you’ll see the whole thing quite plainly and thank God for your escape. But if, after knowing a girl a week, you marry her in defiance of everyone wiser and better than yourself, you’ll rue the day, and be tied to some one for life, some one of whom you really know nothing.”
“Poor old Maradick!” Tony laughed. “You’ve got to talk like that, I know; it’s your duty so to do. But I never knew anyone say it so reluctantly; you’re really as keen about it as I am, and you’d be most frightfully sick if I went off to-morrow. Besides, it’s simply not to be thought of. I’d much rather marry her and find it was a ghastly mistake than go through life feeling that I’d missed something, missed the best thing there was to have. It’s missing things, not doing them wrong, that matters in life.”
“Then you’ll go on anyhow?” said Maradick.
“Anyhow,” said Tony, “I’m of age. I’ve got means of my own, and if she loves me then nothing shall stop me. If necessary, we’ll elope.”
“Dear me,” said Maradick, shaking his head, “I really oughtn’t to be in it at all. I told you so from the beginning. But as you’ll go on whether I’m there or no, I suppose I must stay.”
The night had influenced Mrs. Lester. She sat under the birches in the shadow with her blue dress like a cloud about her. She felt very romantic. The light in Tony’s eyes at dinner had been very beautiful. Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to get some of that romance back again! During most of the year she was an exceedingly sane and level-headed person. The Lesters were spoken of in London as an ideal couple, as fond of each other as ever, but with none of that silly sentiment. And so for the larger part of the year it was; and then there came suddenly a moment when she hated the jog-trot monotony of it all, when she would give anything to regain that fire, that excitement, that fine beating of the heart. To do her justice, she didn’t in the least mind about the man, indeed she would have greatly preferred that it should have been her husband; she was much more in love with Romance, Sentiment, Passion, fine abstract things with big capital letters, than any one person; only, whilst the mood was upon her, she must discover somebody. It was no use being romantic to the wind or the stars or the trees.
It really amounted to playing a game, and if Fred would consent to play it with her it would be the greatest fun; but then he wouldn’t. He had the greatest horror of emotional scenes, and was always sternly practical with advice about hot-water bottles and not sitting in a draught. He did not, she told herself a hundred times a day, understand her moods in the least. He had never let her help him the least little bit in his work, he shut her out; she tossed her head at the stars, gathered her blue dress about her, and went up to bed.
The bedroom seemed enormous, and the shaded electric light left caverns and spaces of darkness; the enormous bed in the middle of the room seemed without end or boundary. She heard her husband in the dressing-room, and she sat down in front of her glass with a sigh.
“You can go, Ferris,” she said to her maid, “I’ll manage for myself to-night.”
She began to brush her hair; she was angry with the things in the room, everything was so civilised and respectable. The silver on the dressing-table, a blue pincushion, the looking-glass; the blue dress, hanging over the back of a chair, seemed in its reflexion to trail endlessly along the floor. She brushed her hair furiously; it was very beautiful hair, and she wondered whether Fred had ever noticed how beautiful it was. Oh, yes! he’d noticed it in the early days; she remembered how he had stroked it and what nice things he had said. Ah! those early days had been worth having! How exciting they had been! Her heart beat now at the remembrance of them.
She heard the door of the dressing-room close, and Fred came in. He yawned; she glanced up. He was a little shrimp of a man certainly, but he looked rather nice in his blue pyjamas. He was brown, and his grey eyes were very attractive. Although she did not know it, she loved every inch of him from the top of his head to the sole of his foot, but, just now, she wanted something that he had decided, long ago, was bad for her. He had made what he would have called a complete study of her nervous system, treating her psychology as he would have treated the heroine of one of his own novels. He was quite used to her fits of sentiment and he knew that if he indulged her in the least the complaint was aggravated and she was, at once, highly strung and aggressively emotional. His own love for her was so profound and deep that this “billing and cooing” seemed a very unimportant and trivial affair, and he always put it down with a firm hand. They mustn’t be children any longer; they’d got past that kind of thing. There were scenes, of course, but it only lasted for a very short time, and then she was quite all right again. He never imagined her flinging herself into anyone else because he would not give her what she wanted. He was too sure of her affection for him.
He had noticed that these attacks of “nerves,” as he called them, were apt to come at Treliss, and he had therefore rather avoided the place, but he found that it did, in some curious way, affect him also, and especially his work. The chapters that he wrote at Treliss had a rich, decorated colour that he could not capture in any other part of the world. Perhaps it was the medieval “feeling” of the place, the gold and brown of the roofs and rocks, the purple and blue of the sea and sky; but it went, as he knew, deeper than that. That spirit that influenced and disturbed his wife influenced also his work.
They had been quarrelling for two days, and he saw with relief her smile as he came into the room. Their quarrels disturbed his work.
“Come here, Fred. Don’t yawn; it’s rude. I’ve forgiven you, although you have been perfectly hateful these last few days. I think it’s ripping of me to have anything to do with you. But, as a matter of fact, you’re not a bad old thing and you look rather sweet in blue pyjamas.”
She laid her hand on his arm for a moment and then took his hand. He looked at her rather apprehensively; it might mean simply that it was the end of the quarrel, but it might mean that she had one of her moods again.
“I say, old girl,” he said, smiling down at her, “I’m most awfully sleepy. I don’t know what there is about this place, but I simply can’t keep awake. It’s partly the weather, I suppose. But anyhow, if you don’t awfully mind I think I’ll go off to sleep. I’m jolly glad you aren’t angry any more. I know I was rather silly, but the book’s a bit of a bother just now. . . .”
He yawned again.
“No, youshan’tgo to bed just yet, you sleepy old thing. I really don’t feel as though I’d seen anything of you at all this week. And I want to hear all about everything, all about the book. You haven’t told me a thing.”
He moved his hand. “I say, my dear, you’ll be getting the most frightful cold sitting in a draught like that. You’d much better come to bed and we’ll talk to-morrow.”
But she smiled at him. “No, Fred, I’m going to talk to you. I’m going to give you a sermon. You haven’t been a bit nice to me all this time here. I know I’ve been horrid, but then that’s woman’s privilege; and you know a woman’s only horrid because she wants a man to be nice, and I wanted you to be nice. This summer weather and everything makes it seem like those first days, the honeymoon at that sweet little place in Switzerland, you remember. That night . . .” She sighed and pressed his hand.
He patted her hand. “Yes, dear, of course I remember. Do you suppose I shall ever forget it? We’ll go out to-morrow somewhere and have an afternoon together alone. Without these people hanging round. I ought to get the chapter finished to-morrow morning.”
He moved back from the chair.
“What chapter, dear?” She leaned back over the chair, looking up in his face. “You know, I wish you’d let me share your work a little. I don’t know how many years we haven’t been married now, and you’ve always kept me outside it. A wife ought to know about it. Just at first you did tell me things a little and I was so frightfully interested. And I’m sure I could help you, dear. There are things a woman knows.”
He smiled at the thought of the way that she would help him. He would never be able to show her the necessity of doing it all alone, both for him and for her. That part of his life he must keep to himself. He remembered that he had thought before their marriage that she would be able to help. She had seemed so ready to sympathise and understand. But he had speedily discovered the hopelessness of it. Not only was she of no assistance, but she even hindered him.
She took the feeble, the bad parts of the book and praised; she handled his beautiful delicacy, the so admirably balanced sentences, the little perfect expressions that had flown to him from some rich Paradise where they had waited during an eternity of years for some one to use them—she had taken these rare treasures of his and trampled on them, flung them to the winds, demanded their rejection.
She had never for a moment seen his work at all; the things that she had seen had not been there, the things that she had not seen were the only jewels that he possessed. The discovery had not pained him; he had not loved her forthat, the grasping and sharing of his writing, but for the other things that were there for him, just as charmingly as before. But he could not bear to have his work touched by the fingers of those who did not understand. When people came and asked him about it and praised it just because it was the thing to do, he felt as though some one had flung some curtain aside and exposed his body, naked, to a grinning world.
And it was this, in a lesser degree, that she did. She was only asking, like the rest, because it was the thing to do, because she would be able to say to the world that she helped him; she did not care for the thing, its beauty and solemnity and grace, she did not even see that itwasbeautiful, solemn, or graceful.
“Never mind my work, dear,” he said. “One wants to fling it off when one’s out of it. You don’t want to know about the book. Why, I don’t believe you’ve ever read ‘To Paradise’ right through; now, have you?”
“Why, of course, Ilovedit, although therewere, as a matter of fact, things that I could have told you about women. Your heroine, for instance——”
He interrupted hurriedly. “Well, dear, let’s go to bed now. We’ll talk to-morrow about anything you like.” He moved across the room.
She looked angrily into the glass. She could feel that little choke in her throat and her eyes were burning. She tapped the table impatiently.
“I think it’s a little hard,” she said, “that one’s husband should behave as if one were a complete stranger, or, worse still, an ordinary acquaintance. You might perhaps take more interest in a stranger. I don’t think I want very much, a little sympathy and some sign of affection.”
He was sitting on the bed. “That’s all right, dear, only you must admit that you’re a little hard to understand. Here during the last two days you’ve been as cross as it’s possible for anyone to be about nothing at all, and then suddenly you want one to slobber. You go up and down so fast that it’s simply impossible for an ordinary mortal to follow you.”
“Isn’t that charming?” she said, looking at the blue pincushion, “such a delightful way to speak to one’s wife.” Then suddenly she crossed over to him. “No, dear. I didn’t mean that really, it was silly of me. Only I do need a little sympathy sometimes. Little things, you know, matter to us women; we remember and notice.”
“That’s all right.” He put his arm round her neck and kissed her, then he jumped into bed. “We’ll talk to-morrow.” He nestled into the clothes with a little sigh of satisfaction; in a moment he was snoring.
She sat on the bed and stared in front of her. Her hair was down and she looked very young. Most of the room was in shadow, but her dressing-table glittered under the electric light; the silver things sparkled like jewels, the gleam fell on the blue dress and travelled past it to the wall.
She swung her feet angrily. How dare he go to sleep all in a moment in that ridiculous manner? His kiss had seemed a step towards sentiment, and now, in a moment, he was snoring. Oh! that showed how much he cared! Why had she ever married him?
At the thought of the splendid times that she might have been having with some one else, with some splendid strong man who could take her in his arms until she could scarcely breathe, some one who would understand her when she wanted to talk and not go fast off to sleep, some one, well, like Mr. Maradick, for instance, her eyes glittered.
She looked at the room, moved across the floor and switched off the lights. She crept into bed, moving as far away from her husband as possible. He didn’t care—nobody cared—she belonged to nobody in the world. She began to sob, and then she thought, of the picnic; well, he had cared and understood. He would not have gone to sleep . . . soon she was dreaming.
And the other person upon whom the weather had had some effect was Mrs. Maradick. It could not be said that weather, as a rule, affected her at all, and perhaps even now things might be put down to the picnic; but the fact remains that for the first time in her selfish little life she was unhappy. She had been wounded in her most sensitive spot, her vanity. It did not need any very acute intelligence to see that she was not popular with the people in the hotel. The picnic had shown it to her quite conclusively, and she had returned in a furious passion. They had been quite nice to her, of course, but it did not need a very subtle woman to discover their real feelings. Fifteen years of Epsom’s admiration had ill-prepared her for a harsh and unsympathetic world, and she had never felt so lonely in her life before. She hated Lady Gale and Mrs. Lester bitterly from the bottom of her heart, but she would have given a very great deal, all her Epsom worshippers and more, for some genuine advance on their part.
She was waiting now in her room for her husband to come in. She was sitting up in bed looking very diminutive indeed, with her little sharp nose and her bright shining eyes piercing the shadows; she had turned out the lights, except the one by the bed. She did not know in the least what she was going to say to him, but she was angry and sore and lonely; she was savage with the world in general and with James in particular. She bit her lips and waited. He came in softly, as though he expected to find her asleep, and then when he saw her light he started. His bed was by the window and he moved towards it. Then he stopped and saw her sitting up in bed.
“Emmy! You still awake!”
He looked enormous in his pyjamas; he could see his muscles move beneath the jacket.
“Yes,” she said, “I want to talk to you.”
“Oh! must we? Now?” he said. “It seems very late.”
“It’s the only opportunity that one gets nowadays,” she said, her eyes flaring, “you are so much engaged.” It made her furious to see him looking so clean and comfortably sleepy.
“Engaged?” he said.
“Oh! we needn’t go into that,” she answered. “One doesn’t really expect to see anything of one’s husband in these modern times, it isn’t the thing!”
He didn’t remind her that during the last fifteen years she hadn’t cared very much whether he were lonely or not. He looked at her gravely.
“Don’t let’s start that all over again now,” he said. “I would have spent the whole time with you if you hadn’t so obviously shown me that you didn’t want me. You can hardly have forgotten already what you said the other day.”
“Do you think that’s quite true?” she said, looking up at him; she was gripping the bedclothes in her hands. “Don’t you think that it’s a little bit because there’s some one else who did, or ratherdoes, want you?”
“What do you mean?” he said, coming towards her bed. She was suddenly frightened. This was the man whom she had seen for the first time on that first evening at dinner, some one she had never known before.
“I mean what I say,” she answered. “How long do you suppose that I intend to stand this sort of thing? You leave me deliberately alone;Idon’t know what you do with your days,oryour evenings, neither does anyone else. I’m not going to be made a laughing-stock of in the hotel; all those beastly women . . .” She could scarcely speak for rage.
“There is nothing to talk about,” he answered sternly. “It’s only your own imagination. At any rate, we are not going to have a scene now, nor ever again, as far as that goes. I’m sick of them.”
“Well,” she answered furiously, “if you think I’m going to sit there and let myself be made a fool of and say nothing you’re mightily mistaken; I’ve had enough of it.”
“And so have I,” he answered quietly. “If you’re tired of this place we’ll go away somewhere else, wherever you please; perhaps it would be a good thing. This place seems to have upset you altogether. Perhaps after all it would be the best thing. It would cut all the knots and end all these worries.”
But she laughed scornfully. “Oh! no, thank you. I like the place well enough. Only you must be a little more careful. And if you think——”
But he cut her short. “I don’t think anything about it,” he said. “I’m tired of talking. This placehasmade a difference, it’s true. It’s shown me some of the things that I’ve missed all these years; I’ve been going along like a cow . . . and now for the future it’s going to be different.”
“Oh! it’s not only the place,” she sneered. “Mrs. Lester——”
But at the word he suddenly bent down and held her by the shoulders. His face was white; he was shaking with anger. He was so strong that she felt as though he was going to crush her into nothing.
“Look here,” he whispered, “leave that alone. I won’t have it, do you hear? I won’t have it. You’ve been riding me too long, you and your nasty dirty little thoughts; now I’m going to have my own way. You’ve had yours long enough; leave me alone. Don’t drive me too far. . . .”
He let her drop back on the pillows. She lay there without a word. He stole across the room on his naked feet and switched out the lights. She heard him climb into bed.
OF LOVE—AND THEREFORE TO BE SKIPPED BY ALL THOSE
WHO ARE TIRED OF THE SUBJECT
Above the knoll the afternoon sun hung in a golden mist. The heat veiled it, and the blue of the surrounding sky faded into golden shadows near its circle and swept in a vast arc to limitless distance. The knoll, humped like a camel’s back, stood out a vivid green against the darker wall of trees behind it. Far below, the white sand of the cove caught the sun and shone like a pearl, and beyond it was the blue carpet of the sea.
Morelli sat, cross-legged, on the knoll. In his hands was his flute, but he was staring straight below him down on to the cove. He waited, the air was heavy with heat; a crimson butterfly hovered for a moment in front of him and then swept away, a golden bee buzzed about his head and then lumbered into the air. There was silence; the trees stood rigid in the heat.
Suddenly Morelli moved. Two black specks appeared against the white shadows of the beach; he began to play.
Punch was lying on the cliff asleep. To his right, curving towards the white sand, was a sea-pool slanting with green sea-weed down into dark purple depths. The sun beat upon the still surface of it and changed it into burning gold. Below this the sea-weed flung green shadows across the rock. It reflected through the gold the straight white lines of the road above it, and the brown stem, sharp like a sword, of a slender poplar. It seemed to pass through the depths of the pool into endless distance. Besides the green of the sea-weed and the gold of the sun there was the blue of the sky reflected, and all these lights and colours mingled and passed and then mingled again as in the curving circle of a pearl shell. Everything was metallic, with a hard outline like steel, under the blazing sun.
Tony turned the corner and came down the hill. He was in flannels and carried in one hand a large tea-basket. His body, long and white, was reflected in the green and blue of the pool. It spread in little ripples driven by a tiny wind in white shadows to the bank.
He was whistling, and then suddenly he saw Toby and Punch asleep in the grass. He stopped for a moment in the road and looked at them. Then he passed on.
The white sand gleamed and sparkled in the sun; the little wind had passed from the face of the pool, and there was no movement at all except the very soft and gentle breaking of tiny waves on the sand’s edge. A white bird hanging for the moment motionless in the air, a tiny white cloud, the white edge of the breaking ripples, broke the blue.
Tony sat down. From where he was sitting he could see the town rising tier upon tier into a peak. It lay panting in the sun like a beast tired out.
The immediate problem was whether Morelli or Miss Minns would come. A tiny note in a tiny envelope had arrived at the “Man at Arms” that morning. It had said:
Dear Mr. Gale,Thank you so very much. It is charming of you to ask us. We shall be delighted to come.Yours sincerelyJanet Morelli.
Dear Mr. Gale,
Thank you so very much. It is charming of you to ask us. We shall be delighted to come.
Yours sincerely
Janet Morelli.
It wasn’t like her, and short though it was he felt sure that somebody had watched her whilst she did it. And “we”? For whom did that stand? He had felt so sure in his heart of hearts that no one except Janet would come that he was, at first, bitterly disappointed. What a farce the whole thing would be if anyone else were there! He laughed sarcastically at the picture of Miss Minns perched horribly awry at the end of the boat, forcing, by her mere presence, the conversation into a miserable stern artificiality. And then suppose it were Morelli? But it wouldn’t be, of that he was sure; Morelli had other things to do.
He glanced for a moment up to the cliff where Punch was. He didn’t want the whole town to know what he was about. Punch could keep a secret, of course, he had kept a good many in his time, but it might slip out; not that there was anything to be ashamed of.
As a matter of fact, he had had some difficulty in getting away from the hotel; they had been about him like bees, wanting him to do things. He had noticed, too, that his mother was anxious. Since the day of the picnic she had watched him, followed him with her eyes, had evidently longed to ask him what he was going to do. That, he knew, was her code, that she should ask him nothing and should wait; but he felt that she was finding the waiting very difficult. He was quite sure in his own mind that Alice had spoken to her, and, although he would give everything in the world to be pleasant and easy, he found, in spite of himself, that he was, when he talked to her, awkward and strained. There was something new and strange in her attitude to him, so that the old cameraderie was quite hopelessly gone, and the most ordinary conventional remark about the weather became charged with intensest meaning. This all contrived to make things at the hotel very awkward, and everyone was in that state of tension which forced them to see hidden mysteries in everything that happened or was said. The Lesters had been barely on speaking terms at breakfast time and Maradick hadn’t appeared at all.
Then, when the afternoon had come, his mother had asked him to come out with them. He had had to refuse, and had only been able to give the vaguest of reasons. They knew that he was not going with Mr. Maradick, because he had promised to walk with Mr. Lester. What was he going to do? He spoke of friends in the town and going for a row. It had all been very unpleasant. Life was, in fact, becoming immensely complicated, and if Miss Minns were to appear he would have all this worry and trouble for nothing.
He gazed furiously at the hard white road. The pool shone like a mirror; the road, the poplar, the sky were painted on its surface in hard vivid outline. Suddenly a figure was reflected in it. Some one in a white dress with a large white hat, her reflexion spread across the length of the pool. The water caught a mass of golden hair and held it for a moment, then it was gone.
Tony’s eyes, straining towards the hill, suddenly saw her; she was alone. When he saw her his heart began to beat so furiously that for a moment he could not move. Then he sprang to his feet. He must not be too sure. Perhaps Miss Minns was late. He watched her turn down the path and come towards him. She was looking very cool and collected and smiling at him as she crossed the sand.
“Isn’t it a lovely day?” she said, shaking hands. “I’m not late, am I?”
“No, I was rather early;” and then, suddenly, “Is Miss Minns coming?”
“Oh, no,” Janet laughed, “it was far too hot. She is sleeping with all the curtains drawn and the doors and windows shut. Only I’m not to be late. Oh, dear! What fun! Where’s the boat?”
The excitement of hearing that she really was alone was very nearly too much for Tony. He wanted to shout.
“Oh, I say, I’m so glad. No, I don’t mean to be rude really; I think Miss Minns awfully decent, simply ripping” (this, I am afraid, due to general pleasure rather than strict veracity), “but it would have put a bit of a stopper on the talking, wouldn’t it? and you know there are simply tons of things that I want to talk about. The boat’s round here, round the corner over these rocks. I thought we’d row to Mullin’s Cave, have tea, and come back.”
They moved across the sand.
Punch had woke at the sound of voices and now was staring in front of him. He recognised both of them. “The couple of babies,” he said, and he sighed.
And at that precise moment some one else came down the path. It was Alice du Cane. She carried a pink parasol. Her figure lay for a moment on the surface of the pool. She was looking very pretty, but she was very unhappy. They had asked her to go out with them, but she had refused and had pleaded a headache. And then she had hated the gloom and silence of her room. She knew what it was that she wanted, although she refused to admit it to herself. She pretended that she wanted the sea, the view, the air; and so she went out. She told herself a hundred times a day that she must go away, must leave the place and start afresh somewhere else. That was what she wanted; another place and she would soon forget. And then there would come fierce self-reproach and miserable contempt. She, Alice du Cane, who had prided herself on her self-control? The kind of girl who could quote Henley with satisfaction, “Captain of her soul?” At the turn of the road she saw Punch and Toby; then across the white sand of the cove two figures.
He said good-day, and she smiled at him. Then for a moment she stopped. It was Tony, she could hear his laugh; he gave the girl his hand to cross the rocks.
“A beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said to Punch, and passed down the road.
They found the boat round the corner of the rocks lying with its clean white boards and blue paint. It lay with a self-conscious air on the sand, as though it knew at what ceremony it was to attend. It gurgled and chuckled with pleasure as it slipped into the water. Whilst he busied himself with the oars she stood silently, her hands folded in front of her, looking out to sea. “I’ve always wanted to know,” she said, “what there is right out there on the other side. One used to fancy a country, like any child, with mountains and lakes, black sometimes and horrible when one was in a bad mood, and then, on other days, beautiful and full of sun. . . .”
They said very little as the boat moved out; the cove rapidly dwindled into a shining circle of silver sand; the rocks behind it assumed shapes, dragons and mandarins and laughing dogs, the town mounted like a pyramid into the sky and some of it glittered in the light of the sun like diamonds.
Janet tried to realise her sensations. In the first place she had never been out in a boat before; secondly, she had never been really alone with Tony before; thirdly, she had had no idea that she would have felt so silent as she did. There were hundreds of things that she wanted to say, and yet she sat there tongue-tied. She was almost afraid of breaking the silence, as though it were some precious vase and she was tempted to fling a stone.
Tony too felt as though he were in church. He rowed with his eyes fixed on the shore, and Janet. Now that the great moment had actually arrived he was frightened. Whatever happened, the afternoon would bring tremendous consequences with it. If she laughed at him, or was amazed at his loving her, then he felt that he could never face the long dreary stretches of life in front of him; and if she loved him, well, a good many things would have to happen. He realised, too, that a number of people were bound up with this affair of his; his mother, Alice, the Maradicks, even the Lesters.
“They didn’t mind your coming alone?” he said at last.
“Oh, no, why should they?” she said, laughing. “Besides, father approves of you enormously, and I’m so glad! He’s never approved of anyone as a companion before, and it makes such a difference.”
“Is he kind to you?”
“Father! Why, of course!”
“Are you fond of him?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I must know; I want to know all about it. We can’t be real friends unless there’s complete confidence. That’s the best of being the ages we are. As things are, we can’t have very much to hide, but later on people get all sorts of things that they have done and said that they keep locked up.”
“No,” said Janet, smiling, “I haven’t got anything to hide. I’ll try and tell you all you want to know. But it’s very difficult, about father.”
“Why?” said Tony.
“Well, you see, I haven’t known other people’s fathers at all, and up to quite lately I didn’t think there was anything peculiar about mine, but just lately I’ve been wondering. You see there’s never been any particular affection, there hasn’t been any question of affection, and that’s,” she stopped for a moment, “that’s what I’ve been wanting. I used to make advances when I was quite tiny, climb on his knee, and sometimes he would play, oh! beautifully! and then suddenly he would stop and push me aside, or behave, perhaps, as though I were not there at all.”
“Brute!” said Tony between his teeth, driving the oar furiously through the water.
“And then I began to see gradually that he didn’t care at all. It was easy enough even for a girl as young as I was to understand, and yet he would sometimes be so affectionate.” She broke off. “I think,” she said, looking steadily out to sea, “that he would have liked to have killed me sometimes. He is so furious at times that he doesn’t in the least know what he’s doing.”
“What did you do when he was like that?” asked Tony in a very low voice.
“Oh, one waits,” she said very quietly, “they don’t last long.”
She spoke dispassionately, as though she were outside the case altogether, but Tony felt that if he had Morelli there, in the boat with him, he would know what to do and say.
“You must get away,” he said.
“There are other things about him,” she went on, “that I’ve noticed that other people’s fathers don’t do. He’s wonderful with animals, and yet he doesn’t seem really to care about them, or, at least, he only cares whilst they are in certain moods. And although they come to him so readily I often think that they are really afraid as I am.”
She began to think as she sat there. She had never spoken about it all to anyone before, and so it had never, as it were, materialised. She had never realised until now how badly she had wanted to talk to some one about it.
“Oh, you have been so fortunate,” she said, a little wistfully, “to have done so many things and seen so many people. Tell me about other girls, are they all beautiful? Do they dress beautifully?”
“No,” he said, looking at her. “They are very tiresome. I can’t be serious with girls as a rule. That’s why I like to be with you. You don’t mind a fellow being serious. Girls seem to think a man isn’t ever meant to drop his grin, and it gets jolly tiresome. Because, you know, life is awfully serious when you come to think about it. I’ve only realised,” he hesitated a moment, “during this last fortnight how wonderful it is. That’s, you know,” he went on hurriedly, “why I really like to be with men better. Now a fellow like Maradick understands what one’s feeling, he’s been through it, he’s older, and he knows. But then you understand too; it’s jolly funny how well you understand a chap.”
He dropped his oars for a moment and the boat drifted. They were rounding the point, and the little sandy beach for which they were making crept timidly into sight. There was perfect stillness; everything was as though it were carved from stone, the trees on the distant hill, the hanging curtain of sky, the blue mirror of the sea, the sharply pointed town. A flock of white sheep, tiny like a drifting baby cloud, passed for a moment against the horizon on the brow of the hill. There was a very faint sound of bells.
They were both very silent. The oars cut through the water, the boat gave a little sigh as it pushed along, there was no other sound.
They sat on the beach and made tea. Tony had thought of everything. There was a spirit lamp, and the kettle bubbled and hissed and spluttered. Tony busied himself about the tea because he didn’t dare to speak. If he said the very simplest thing he knew that he would lose all self-control. She was sitting against a rock with her dress spread around her.
She looked up at him with big, wide-open eyes.
“Your name is Tony, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I suppose it is short for Anthony. I shall call you Tony. But see, there is something that I want to say. You will never now, after we have been such friends, let it go again, will you? Because it has been so wonderful meeting you, and has made such a difference to me that I couldn’t bear it. If you went away, and you had other friends and—forgot.”
“No, I won’t forget.”
He dropped a plate on to the sand and came towards her.
“Janet.” He dropped on to his knees beside her. “I must tell you. I love you, I love you, Janet. I don’t care whether you are angry or not, and if you don’t feel like that then I will be an awfully decent friend and won’t bother you about love. I’ll never talk about it. And anyhow, I ought, I suppose, to give you time; a little because you haven’t seen other fellows, and it’s not quite fair.”
He didn’t touch her, but knelt on the sand, looking up into her face.
She looked down at him and laughed. “Why, how silly, Tony dear, I’ve loved you from the first moment that I saw you; why, of course, you must have known.”
Their hands touched, and at that moment Tony realised the wonderful silence and beauty of the world. The sea spread before them like a carpet, but it was held with the rocks and sand and sky in breathless tension by God for one immortal second. Nature waited for a moment to hear the story that it had heard so often before, then when the divine moment had passed the world went on its course once more. But in that moment things had happened. A new star had been born in the sky, the first evening star, and it sparkled and glittered above the town; in the minstrels’ room at that moment the sun shone and danced on the faces of the lions, beneath the tower the apple-woman paused in her knitting and nodded her head solemnly at some secret pleasant thought, on the knoll the birds clustered in chattering excitement, far on the horizon a ship with gleaming sails rose against the sky.
“Janet, darling.” He bent down and kissed her hand. Then he raised his face, hers bent down to his—they kissed.
Half an hour later they were in the boat again; she sat on the floor with her head against his knee. He rowed very slowly, which was natural, because it was difficult to move the oars.
The evening lights began to creep across the sky, and the sun sank towards the horizon; other stars had stolen into the pale blue sky; near the sea a pale orange glow, as of a distant fire, burned. The boat shone like a curved and shining pearl.
Tony had now a difficult business in front of him. The situation had to be made clear to her that his people must not be told. He was quite resolved within himself in what way he was going to carry the situation through, but he could not at all see that she would consider the matter in the same light. It would take time and considerable trouble to convey to her a true picture of the complicated politics of the Gale family.
“Janet, dear,” he said, “we have now to be sternly practical. There are several things that have to be faced. In the first place, there is your father.”
“Yes,” she said, a little doubtfully.
“Well, how will he take it?”
“I don’t know.” She looked up at him and laid her hand very lightly upon his knee. The yellow light had crept up from the horizon, and was spreading in bands of colour over the sky; the sea caught the reflexion very faintly, but the red glow had touched the dark band of country behind them and the white road, the still black trees were beginning to burn as though with fire.
“Well,” said Tony, “of course I shall tell him at once. What will he say?”
“I don’t know. One never can tell with father. But, dear, must you? Couldn’t we wait? It is not that I mind his knowing, but I am, in some way, afraid.”
“But he likes me,” said Tony; “you told me yourself.”
“Yes, but his liking anybody never means very much. It’s hard to explain; but it isn’t you that he likes so much as something that you’ve got. It is always that with everybody. I’ve seen it heaps of times. He goes about and picks people up, and if they haven’t got the thing he’s looking for he drops them at once and forgets them as soon as he can. I don’t know what it is that he looks for exactly, but, whatever it is, he finds it in the animals, and in the place even; that’s why he lives at Treliss.”
Janet was very young about the world in general, but about anything that she had herself immediately met she was wise beyond her years.
She looked at him a moment, and then added: “But of course you must speak to him; it is the only thing to do.”
“And suppose,” said Tony, “that he refuses to give his consent?”
“Oh, of course,” Janet answered quietly, “then we must go away. I belong to you now. Father does not care for me in the least, and I don’t care for anyone in the world except you.”
Her calm acceptance of the idea that he himself had intended to submit to her very tentatively indeed frightened him. His responsibility seemed suddenly to increase ten-fold. Her suggesting an elopement so quietly, and even asserting it decisively as though there were no other possible alternative, showed that she didn’t in the least realise what it would all mean.
“And then, of course,” she went on quietly, “there are your people. What will they say?”
“That’s it, dear. That’s the dreadful difficulty. They mustn’t be told at all. The only person in the family who really matters in the least is my mother, and she matters everything. The governor and my brother care for me only as the family, and they have to see that that isn’t damaged.”
“And they’d think that I’d damage it?” said Janet.
“Yes,” said Tony, quietly, “they would. You see, dear, in our set in town the two things that matter in marriage are family and money. You’ve got to have either ancestors or coin. Your ancestors, I expect, are simply ripping, but they’ve got to be in Debrett, so that everyone can look them up when the engagement’s announced. It isn’t you they’d object to, but the idea.”
“I see; well?”
“Well, if mother knew about it; if it was public she’d have to support the family, of course. But really in her heart of hearts what she wants is that I should be happy. She’d much rather have that than anything else; so that if we are married and it’s too late for anyone to say anything, and she sees that we are happy, then it will be all right, but she mustn’t know until afterwards.”
Tony stopped, but Janet said nothing. Then he went on: “You see there was a sort of idea with people, before we came down here, that I should get engaged to some one. It was more or less an understood thing.”
“Was there, is there anyone especially?” asked Janet.
“Yes; a Miss Du Cane. We’d been pals for a long time without thinking about marriage at all; and then people began to say it was time for me to settle down, and rot like that—and she seemed quite suitable, and so she was asked down here.”
“Did you care about her?”
“Oh! like a friend, of course. She’s a jolly good sort, and used to be lots of fun, but as soon as all this business came into it she altered and it became different. And then I saw you, and there was never more any question of anyone else in all the world.”
Tony dropped the oars and let the boat drift. He caught her golden hair in his hands and twined it about his arm. He bent down and touched her lips. She leaned up towards him and they clung together. About them the sea was a golden flame, the sky was a fiery red, the country behind them was iron black. The boat danced like a petal out to sea.
Then, with her arm about his neck, Janet spoke again. “Your father would like you to marry this lady?” she asked.
“Yes. He thinks that I am going to.”
“Ah! now I understand it all. You cannot tell them, of course; I see that. We must do it first and tell them afterwards. And father will never consent. I am sure of it. Oh, dear! what fun! we must go away secretly; it will be an elopement.”
“What a ripping rag!” said Tony eagerly. “Oh! darling, I was so afraid that you would mind all those things, and I didn’t want to tell you. But now that you take it like that! And then, you see, that’s where Maradick comes in.”
“Mr. Maradick?”
“Yes. He’s really the foundation-stone of the whole affair. It’s because mother trusts him so absolutely completely that she’s feeling so safe. He knows all about it, and has known all about it all the time. Mother depends on him altogether; we all depend on him, and he’ll help us.”
The sun lay, like a tired warrior, on the breast of the sea; the clouds, pink and red and gold, gathered about him. The boat turned the creek and stole softly into the white shelter of the cove. Above the heads of the lovers the stars glittered, about them the land, purple and dark with its shadows, crept in on every side. Some bell rang from the town, there was the murmur of a train, the faint cry of some distant sheep.
Their voices came softly in the dusk:
“I love you.”
“Janet!”
“Tony!”
The night fell.