CHAPTER XIVThe Conservatory and the Den.The fountain had a little tinkling, singing sound, and there was a delicious odour of flowers, which mingled entrancingly with the shaded lights and graceful bending ferns. Eileen felt it rather than saw it, as though all her senses had become one deep appreciation and enjoyment.Long afterward, when recalling every moment of that quiet half-hour, she was conscious of exactly the light, and the scent, and the sound, and would shrink away from certain hot-house flowers as if they hurt her.But for the present there was only a deep content in her heart and a vague dream of happiness, shedding a soft light over all her future. In all their intercourse, it seemed to her that Lawrence had never been quite so fascinating before, and though now and then he seemed to draw himself up sharply and suddenly adopt a very matter-of-fact tone, she scarcely heeded it. In truth, though Lawrence meant to enjoy his half-hour to the full, he had no intention of becoming lover-like; and when he found her charm growing too much for him, he did indeed pull himself up with a jerk and try to resist. Yet he could not bring himself to be sufficiently honest to speak of his approaching departure for India. He felt there was time enough, and if he told her now, he might be led into explanations that would be troublesome.And Lawrence hated anything at all disturbing or troublesome, or in the nature of an explanation.Eileen was not blind to his failings, and many a time his callousness had hurt her, but, like so many good women, she had a boundless faith in the power of goodness, and believed she could make anything of him once he loved her. In this she was doubtless right, but she was too pure-minded and honest herself to perceive double-dealing in others, and she did not realise that a man like Lawrence might act one thing and feel another.Ifhe had loved her, she might have made anything of him; yet—but what if he did not? Lawrence admired her beauty and respected her goodness, but he did not love her—he only pretended to himself that he liked her better than any one else when they happened to be together. Possibly, if “love” came at will, he would have chosen then and there to love her with his whole heart and make her his wife. But Love is a fugitive, wild thing—bold as a robin, and timid as a lark—and usually none can fit any “why” or “wherefore” to its erratic wanderings. And hand in hand with Love is usually Pain—pain against which we cry out blindly, and wrestle and struggle to escape—childishly indifferent to the teaching of the Ages—that Pain alone is the soil in which grow Strength, and Courage, and Joy.In the worst hour of her suffering afterward, Eileen was yet, in a sense, happier and richer than the man who caused the pain.But now the fountain tinkled and the lights glowed softly, and the scent of hot-house flowers filled the air.“I thought it would be deadly at Omeath,” Lawrence was saying. “If it had not been for the mater, I should not have come, and, instead, it has been very pleasant. How often it happens that we start off on some trip we expect to enjoy thoroughly, and are disappointed all through; whereas we make martyrs of ourselves and undertake something we detest, and it turns out a pleasure from beginning to end.”Eileen looked a little thoughtful. The thought crossed her mind that he had not, then, came back for her.“Yet you seemed happy enough here before?” she remarked at last.“So I was,” he replied at once; “and I had just the same feeling about coming in the first place. But then I did not know about you, Eileen.”“But you did this time,” smiling.“Three years is so long,” he answered unblushingly; “and I imagined, of course, you would have changed, or got married, or something. Most girls change very much in three years.”“Do they?” quietly.“Yes; but you and Paddy are evidently different. I might have known you would be.” He turned the subject deftly to a less dangerous theme, speaking of mutual friends, until a sudden cutting censure brought a remonstrance to her lips.He looked into her face and changed his tone suddenly.“All the black sheep are white to you, Eileen. You are too ideal. You look at everything through the spectacles of idealism, and expect too much of life. You would be wiser to try and harden your heart, and care a little less about everything. You seem to regard most of your fellow-creatures as possible angels, and all the time we are most of us rogues and scoundrels.”“I don’t believe it,” firmly.“That’s because you don’t want to. All the same it is true. Half the world knows it, and makes no fuss; and the other half pretends to be blind for their own satisfaction.”“You only talk like this to tease me,” she said; “but I like your honesty. A man who pretends to nothing and is something is so much nicer than the man who is nothing and pretends much.”“I am neither,” he answered, “for I combine the two. I pretend nothing, and I don’t care.” She smiled a little in spite of herself. “You do pretend something, for you pretend that you do not care.”He looked into her eyes a moment, with a curious expression in his, and Eileen glanced away with embarrassment. He was thinking for the hundredth time how sweet she was, and how—if only—?He knew vaguely that the man who won her would win a treasure; but he loved his liberty, and his heart said “not yet,” and so he contented himself with a look that might mean volumes, or nothing.And Eileen was satisfied. He had paid no real attention to anyone but her, merely doing his duty as host to the rest of his guests, and, undoubtedly, that meant a good deal.As a matter of fact it was so. Lawrence was nearer proposing that evening than he had ever been in his life before, and he could hardly himself have told what deterred him. Perhaps it was a question of the bandsmen finishing their supper five minutes earlier than was expected—upon so slight a thread hang the issues of life. Certainly, leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees, and his whole soul drawn toward the sweet-faced girl beside him, he felt himself on the brink of the plunge that would have changed all her life and his, when, quite unexpectedly, the band struck up in the distance.At the first note, he sat up suddenly, as if he had been awakened, and instead of the question trembling on his lips he smiled a little, and said: “How cruelly the time has flown! I had no idea we had been here half an hour!” and then they both got up, and he gave her his arm back to the ball-room.Eileen felt a queer little tremor that was almost fear, but she only answered in her usual quiet tone, and smiled up at the partner who came forward to claim her for the dance.But the evening was not over yet, and another incident had still to add its mark upon the unfolding of the hours. Lawrence had still to have his dance with Paddy.It came toward the end, when some of the guests, who had a long drive, had already departed, and the formality of the commencement of the evening had merged into a more free and easy air for all. Paddy had had a set of lancers with Jack, and Doreen and Kathleen and their partners, that had bordered upon a romp, and had made her eyes shine, and her cheeks glow with radiant enjoyment, for she had the happy knack of throwing herself heart and soul into the moment, and in this instance the moment had been full of delight.Lawrence found her trying to get cool again, while carrying on her usual flow of chatter, to the amusement of the others; and with a smile, he remarked:“I’m sorry to deprive you all, but this is my dance with Miss Adair.”“Goodness!” exclaimed Paddy in alarm. “Do I dance with you next?”“According to my programme you do.”“Oh, that’s all right,” frankly. “I was only thinking my hair was rather untidy, and my face somewhat highly coloured for such an august occasion as a dance with your majesty.”“Your hair never looked better,” he replied, “and your colour is most becoming.”“Really!” with a gay laugh. “If you keep this up for five minutes I shan’t know myself. You must be careful, for the high honour of dancing with you alone is almost sufficient to unhinge my giddy brain.”“You could hardly dance with me and someone else at the same time,” with corresponding lightness; “but I’m glad that you appreciate the honour so thoroughly.”“Appreciate it! Why, my dear man, I’ve been dying for this dance all the evening.”“May you be forgiven,” he retorted as they glided away. Paddy was quite as good a dancer as Eileen when she gave herself up to it, and, with such a perfect waltzer as Lawrence, she could not fail to do so, even if she could not be prevailed upon to enjoy it in silence. So, as they glided round, she plied him with a string of eager questions relating to dancing and gayeties in far-off lands.“You ought to get your father to take you abroad,” he told her presently! “you’d enjoy all the novelty so tremendously.”“Should I meet a lot of nice, superior, cultured young men like you?”“Well, hardly up to my standard,” he laughed.“Then I don’t want to go. When I can talk to you, and dance with you, and gaze upon you here, why cross the sea to other climes?”“I was thinking more of the countries.”“And have you ever seen anything in all the world so beautiful as the Mourne Mountains and Carlingford Loch?”“Yes, many things.”“I don’t believe it,” stoutly.“Well, come and see some of my photographs in my den.”“What! Enter the throne-room!” in mock amaze.“Yes; why not?”“Oh no ‘why not’ at all. I’m simply dying to go. I have been, ever since I can remember.—I’m wild with curiosity to know what kind of things an animal of your lofty nature collects in its den,” and she followed him eagerly down a long passage, and through a little conservatory into the large, airy room known as Lawrence’s den.When he had switched on the electric light, her eyes grew wide with interest and admiration.“Well! if this isn’t just all right,” she exclaimed. “How daddy would love it!”“It’s somewhat warlike,” glancing at his swords and weapons, “so you ought to feel at home.”“I?—Why?” in surprise.“Because you are always trying to quarrel with me.”“Nonsense! I only tell you a few home truths for your good.”“I hope you find your pupil progressing favourably.”“Very middling,” with a shake of her head. “You know perfectly well you have been bored to death nearly the whole evening, because there were only two or three people you thought worth talking to.”“And if so—it is hardly my fault.”“Why, of course it is! The people were just as nice as you, really—rather nicer in fact—the only difference is a mere question of having studied Browning, and Darwin, and a lot of musty old German and French writers, whom, I’ll be bound to say, you don’t half understand.”“Possibly not. But they have a way of developing the mind.”“Developing the mind!” scornfully. “What’s the matter with my mind?—it develops itself. I don’t pore over musty books.”“Perhaps you are naturally more gifted,” with light satire.“Sarcasm is wasted on me,” she retorted. “It flows off like water from a duck’s back. Why not tell me straight I’m an ignoramus? Just as I tell you straight that all your learning and experience does not give you the right to think yourself so superior to other people, and give yourself such airs.”“You are very outspoken,” smiling a little in spite of himself.“Yes; but I can take plain speaking, too, so if you want to have your revenge, fire away. I know that I’ve got a snub nose and no complexion, and am always more or less untidy, because I’ve been told so often, but you can tell me again if you like.”“I’d rather set you an example in good manners.”“That’s good,” appreciating it at once.“Besides,” he added slyly, “I don’t see that it isn’t just as bad to be proud of a snub nose and untidiness, as of a beautiful nose or book learning, and from the way you speak you positively revel in them.”“You have me again,” she replied frankly. “I guess we’ll be friends for ten minutes and you shall show me your views.”They sat down, and he opened an enormous album, but after the first few pages she looked up at him entreatingly, and said with a delightful little air of pathos:“I’m so sorry, but if you only knew how I hate sitting still. I—I’m just dying to prowl round, and look at all the queer things on the walls.”He closed the book with a laugh, and she sprang up at once, saying:“I’ll look at the views when I’m old and rheumaticky. You must save them for me,” and then she went into raptures over a beautiful case of foreign butterflies, afterward fingering with delight his guns and swords.“You ought to have been a man,” he said almost regretfully.“Why, of course I ought. I’ve known that ever since they put Jack in trousers, and not me. But I guess I’ll have to stay a woman now to the end of the chapter, and make the best of it.”“Then you’re sorry?” he asked, with interest.“Sorry!” she repeated impressively. “Oh, yes, I’m that all right, but I don’t believe in crying over spilt milk.”He watched her silently a moment.“I shouldn’t wonder if you haven’t got a future, Paddy,” he remarked. “There’s something about you that has the ring of achievement—only there’s not much room here,” signifying the surrounding neighbourhood. “Quite room enough,” picking up a Mauser pistol and examining it with the eye of a connoisseur. “Can’t I ride straight, and shoot straight, and sail anything with a rag and a mast—that’s achievement enough for me. What more do you want?”He drew a bow at a venture, out of idle curiosity. “I wonder where the opposite sex will come in? Don’t you want to have adoring males at your feet by and by!—most women do.”She looked frankly into his eyes with a gay laugh. “Not me! I haven’t time. I’ll leave that for Eileen. Of course, if your lordship—!” with a sudden irresistible twinkle.He could not help laughing, and watched her with growing interest as she wandered on from one curio to another, until she came to his writing table. Here she came to a sudden standstill, and a little involuntary exclamation escaped her. Lawrence looked past her quickly, to find she was gazing with wide eyes, and a strangely mingled expression, at the beautiful full-length portrait of Gwendoline Carew, noticeably in the position of honour on his table.
The fountain had a little tinkling, singing sound, and there was a delicious odour of flowers, which mingled entrancingly with the shaded lights and graceful bending ferns. Eileen felt it rather than saw it, as though all her senses had become one deep appreciation and enjoyment.
Long afterward, when recalling every moment of that quiet half-hour, she was conscious of exactly the light, and the scent, and the sound, and would shrink away from certain hot-house flowers as if they hurt her.
But for the present there was only a deep content in her heart and a vague dream of happiness, shedding a soft light over all her future. In all their intercourse, it seemed to her that Lawrence had never been quite so fascinating before, and though now and then he seemed to draw himself up sharply and suddenly adopt a very matter-of-fact tone, she scarcely heeded it. In truth, though Lawrence meant to enjoy his half-hour to the full, he had no intention of becoming lover-like; and when he found her charm growing too much for him, he did indeed pull himself up with a jerk and try to resist. Yet he could not bring himself to be sufficiently honest to speak of his approaching departure for India. He felt there was time enough, and if he told her now, he might be led into explanations that would be troublesome.
And Lawrence hated anything at all disturbing or troublesome, or in the nature of an explanation.
Eileen was not blind to his failings, and many a time his callousness had hurt her, but, like so many good women, she had a boundless faith in the power of goodness, and believed she could make anything of him once he loved her. In this she was doubtless right, but she was too pure-minded and honest herself to perceive double-dealing in others, and she did not realise that a man like Lawrence might act one thing and feel another.
Ifhe had loved her, she might have made anything of him; yet—but what if he did not? Lawrence admired her beauty and respected her goodness, but he did not love her—he only pretended to himself that he liked her better than any one else when they happened to be together. Possibly, if “love” came at will, he would have chosen then and there to love her with his whole heart and make her his wife. But Love is a fugitive, wild thing—bold as a robin, and timid as a lark—and usually none can fit any “why” or “wherefore” to its erratic wanderings. And hand in hand with Love is usually Pain—pain against which we cry out blindly, and wrestle and struggle to escape—childishly indifferent to the teaching of the Ages—that Pain alone is the soil in which grow Strength, and Courage, and Joy.
In the worst hour of her suffering afterward, Eileen was yet, in a sense, happier and richer than the man who caused the pain.
But now the fountain tinkled and the lights glowed softly, and the scent of hot-house flowers filled the air.
“I thought it would be deadly at Omeath,” Lawrence was saying. “If it had not been for the mater, I should not have come, and, instead, it has been very pleasant. How often it happens that we start off on some trip we expect to enjoy thoroughly, and are disappointed all through; whereas we make martyrs of ourselves and undertake something we detest, and it turns out a pleasure from beginning to end.”
Eileen looked a little thoughtful. The thought crossed her mind that he had not, then, came back for her.
“Yet you seemed happy enough here before?” she remarked at last.
“So I was,” he replied at once; “and I had just the same feeling about coming in the first place. But then I did not know about you, Eileen.”
“But you did this time,” smiling.
“Three years is so long,” he answered unblushingly; “and I imagined, of course, you would have changed, or got married, or something. Most girls change very much in three years.”
“Do they?” quietly.
“Yes; but you and Paddy are evidently different. I might have known you would be.” He turned the subject deftly to a less dangerous theme, speaking of mutual friends, until a sudden cutting censure brought a remonstrance to her lips.
He looked into her face and changed his tone suddenly.
“All the black sheep are white to you, Eileen. You are too ideal. You look at everything through the spectacles of idealism, and expect too much of life. You would be wiser to try and harden your heart, and care a little less about everything. You seem to regard most of your fellow-creatures as possible angels, and all the time we are most of us rogues and scoundrels.”
“I don’t believe it,” firmly.
“That’s because you don’t want to. All the same it is true. Half the world knows it, and makes no fuss; and the other half pretends to be blind for their own satisfaction.”
“You only talk like this to tease me,” she said; “but I like your honesty. A man who pretends to nothing and is something is so much nicer than the man who is nothing and pretends much.”
“I am neither,” he answered, “for I combine the two. I pretend nothing, and I don’t care.” She smiled a little in spite of herself. “You do pretend something, for you pretend that you do not care.”
He looked into her eyes a moment, with a curious expression in his, and Eileen glanced away with embarrassment. He was thinking for the hundredth time how sweet she was, and how—if only—?
He knew vaguely that the man who won her would win a treasure; but he loved his liberty, and his heart said “not yet,” and so he contented himself with a look that might mean volumes, or nothing.
And Eileen was satisfied. He had paid no real attention to anyone but her, merely doing his duty as host to the rest of his guests, and, undoubtedly, that meant a good deal.
As a matter of fact it was so. Lawrence was nearer proposing that evening than he had ever been in his life before, and he could hardly himself have told what deterred him. Perhaps it was a question of the bandsmen finishing their supper five minutes earlier than was expected—upon so slight a thread hang the issues of life. Certainly, leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees, and his whole soul drawn toward the sweet-faced girl beside him, he felt himself on the brink of the plunge that would have changed all her life and his, when, quite unexpectedly, the band struck up in the distance.
At the first note, he sat up suddenly, as if he had been awakened, and instead of the question trembling on his lips he smiled a little, and said: “How cruelly the time has flown! I had no idea we had been here half an hour!” and then they both got up, and he gave her his arm back to the ball-room.
Eileen felt a queer little tremor that was almost fear, but she only answered in her usual quiet tone, and smiled up at the partner who came forward to claim her for the dance.
But the evening was not over yet, and another incident had still to add its mark upon the unfolding of the hours. Lawrence had still to have his dance with Paddy.
It came toward the end, when some of the guests, who had a long drive, had already departed, and the formality of the commencement of the evening had merged into a more free and easy air for all. Paddy had had a set of lancers with Jack, and Doreen and Kathleen and their partners, that had bordered upon a romp, and had made her eyes shine, and her cheeks glow with radiant enjoyment, for she had the happy knack of throwing herself heart and soul into the moment, and in this instance the moment had been full of delight.
Lawrence found her trying to get cool again, while carrying on her usual flow of chatter, to the amusement of the others; and with a smile, he remarked:
“I’m sorry to deprive you all, but this is my dance with Miss Adair.”
“Goodness!” exclaimed Paddy in alarm. “Do I dance with you next?”
“According to my programme you do.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” frankly. “I was only thinking my hair was rather untidy, and my face somewhat highly coloured for such an august occasion as a dance with your majesty.”
“Your hair never looked better,” he replied, “and your colour is most becoming.”
“Really!” with a gay laugh. “If you keep this up for five minutes I shan’t know myself. You must be careful, for the high honour of dancing with you alone is almost sufficient to unhinge my giddy brain.”
“You could hardly dance with me and someone else at the same time,” with corresponding lightness; “but I’m glad that you appreciate the honour so thoroughly.”
“Appreciate it! Why, my dear man, I’ve been dying for this dance all the evening.”
“May you be forgiven,” he retorted as they glided away. Paddy was quite as good a dancer as Eileen when she gave herself up to it, and, with such a perfect waltzer as Lawrence, she could not fail to do so, even if she could not be prevailed upon to enjoy it in silence. So, as they glided round, she plied him with a string of eager questions relating to dancing and gayeties in far-off lands.
“You ought to get your father to take you abroad,” he told her presently! “you’d enjoy all the novelty so tremendously.”
“Should I meet a lot of nice, superior, cultured young men like you?”
“Well, hardly up to my standard,” he laughed.
“Then I don’t want to go. When I can talk to you, and dance with you, and gaze upon you here, why cross the sea to other climes?”
“I was thinking more of the countries.”
“And have you ever seen anything in all the world so beautiful as the Mourne Mountains and Carlingford Loch?”
“Yes, many things.”
“I don’t believe it,” stoutly.
“Well, come and see some of my photographs in my den.”
“What! Enter the throne-room!” in mock amaze.
“Yes; why not?”
“Oh no ‘why not’ at all. I’m simply dying to go. I have been, ever since I can remember.—I’m wild with curiosity to know what kind of things an animal of your lofty nature collects in its den,” and she followed him eagerly down a long passage, and through a little conservatory into the large, airy room known as Lawrence’s den.
When he had switched on the electric light, her eyes grew wide with interest and admiration.
“Well! if this isn’t just all right,” she exclaimed. “How daddy would love it!”
“It’s somewhat warlike,” glancing at his swords and weapons, “so you ought to feel at home.”
“I?—Why?” in surprise.
“Because you are always trying to quarrel with me.”
“Nonsense! I only tell you a few home truths for your good.”
“I hope you find your pupil progressing favourably.”
“Very middling,” with a shake of her head. “You know perfectly well you have been bored to death nearly the whole evening, because there were only two or three people you thought worth talking to.”
“And if so—it is hardly my fault.”
“Why, of course it is! The people were just as nice as you, really—rather nicer in fact—the only difference is a mere question of having studied Browning, and Darwin, and a lot of musty old German and French writers, whom, I’ll be bound to say, you don’t half understand.”
“Possibly not. But they have a way of developing the mind.”
“Developing the mind!” scornfully. “What’s the matter with my mind?—it develops itself. I don’t pore over musty books.”
“Perhaps you are naturally more gifted,” with light satire.
“Sarcasm is wasted on me,” she retorted. “It flows off like water from a duck’s back. Why not tell me straight I’m an ignoramus? Just as I tell you straight that all your learning and experience does not give you the right to think yourself so superior to other people, and give yourself such airs.”
“You are very outspoken,” smiling a little in spite of himself.
“Yes; but I can take plain speaking, too, so if you want to have your revenge, fire away. I know that I’ve got a snub nose and no complexion, and am always more or less untidy, because I’ve been told so often, but you can tell me again if you like.”
“I’d rather set you an example in good manners.”
“That’s good,” appreciating it at once.
“Besides,” he added slyly, “I don’t see that it isn’t just as bad to be proud of a snub nose and untidiness, as of a beautiful nose or book learning, and from the way you speak you positively revel in them.”
“You have me again,” she replied frankly. “I guess we’ll be friends for ten minutes and you shall show me your views.”
They sat down, and he opened an enormous album, but after the first few pages she looked up at him entreatingly, and said with a delightful little air of pathos:
“I’m so sorry, but if you only knew how I hate sitting still. I—I’m just dying to prowl round, and look at all the queer things on the walls.”
He closed the book with a laugh, and she sprang up at once, saying:
“I’ll look at the views when I’m old and rheumaticky. You must save them for me,” and then she went into raptures over a beautiful case of foreign butterflies, afterward fingering with delight his guns and swords.
“You ought to have been a man,” he said almost regretfully.
“Why, of course I ought. I’ve known that ever since they put Jack in trousers, and not me. But I guess I’ll have to stay a woman now to the end of the chapter, and make the best of it.”
“Then you’re sorry?” he asked, with interest.
“Sorry!” she repeated impressively. “Oh, yes, I’m that all right, but I don’t believe in crying over spilt milk.”
He watched her silently a moment.
“I shouldn’t wonder if you haven’t got a future, Paddy,” he remarked. “There’s something about you that has the ring of achievement—only there’s not much room here,” signifying the surrounding neighbourhood. “Quite room enough,” picking up a Mauser pistol and examining it with the eye of a connoisseur. “Can’t I ride straight, and shoot straight, and sail anything with a rag and a mast—that’s achievement enough for me. What more do you want?”
He drew a bow at a venture, out of idle curiosity. “I wonder where the opposite sex will come in? Don’t you want to have adoring males at your feet by and by!—most women do.”
She looked frankly into his eyes with a gay laugh. “Not me! I haven’t time. I’ll leave that for Eileen. Of course, if your lordship—!” with a sudden irresistible twinkle.
He could not help laughing, and watched her with growing interest as she wandered on from one curio to another, until she came to his writing table. Here she came to a sudden standstill, and a little involuntary exclamation escaped her. Lawrence looked past her quickly, to find she was gazing with wide eyes, and a strangely mingled expression, at the beautiful full-length portrait of Gwendoline Carew, noticeably in the position of honour on his table.