Wanless, as they call it there,—Wanless Hall, Felsboro', as it is politically,—stands squarely and deeply in the hills of a northern county, plentifully embowered in trees, with a river washing its southern side. To reach house from river you ascend a gentle slope of lawns and groves for some hundreds of feet, then find a broad stepway. That takes you to a terraced, parapeted garden very well tended, as one should be which has four men at its disposition. There stands the house of Wanless, stone-built in the days of Charles the Second—a gleaming, grey front, covered to the first-floor windows with a magnolia of unknown age. The main entrance faces north, from which point the true shape of the place is revealed as a long body with wings, an E-shaped house. Here are the carriage-drive and carriage-sweep; then there's a belt of trees, and beyond that, shaped by the valley, which gradually narrows to the incline of the hills, kitchen-gardens, glass-houses, a pond (fed by a beck), water meadows, and hanging woods. Above those again heather-clad slopes climb to piled rocks and a ragged sky-line. It is a fine property with 5,000 acres of shooting, a good many farms, and a hill village to its account. The lodge at the gate was half a mile away, at the end of a good avenue of beech and sycamore.
Mr. Nevile Ingram who, at thirty, had still the air of a brisk young man and was owner by inheritance of this place, arrived with his guests by the 7.4 train from London. The omnibus brought the four of them, with a maid sitting on the box beside Frodsham, and a bank of luggage behind her head. No parrots, no dogs; but a Mr. Chevenix brought his fishing-rods. Besides this Mr. Chevenix, who had been here before, there was an elderly Mrs. Devereux, white-haired and short-sighted, who used, whenever she could find them, a pair of long-handled glasses, and a young Mrs. Wilmot, pretty, very fair, rather helpless. It was her maid who shared the box-seat with Frodsham.
The absence of a footman at the station had been noted by Mrs. Devereux, the absence of any man-servant at the house struck her as remarkable. There was none, and had been none since Miss Percival assumed command; but at this time Mrs. Devereux knew nothing of Miss Percival. Nevile Ingram, banging the door open with his knee, jumped out first, and stood to help the ladies; the next to emerge was Mr. Chevenix who, the moment he touched earth, said “Right!†and looked as if he had sparkled. It was clear that he had abundant health and was satisfied with all the arrangements of Providence. He surveyed the house, the awaiting virgins at the door, wished them both good evening, nosed the upper air, snuffed the gale, said “Good old Wanless—my precious rods!†and dived for them before the ladies could descend. Thereafter a timidly poising foot and some robust breadth of stocking revealed the anxieties of Mrs. Devereux. On alighting she shook herself like a hen, and her draperies rustled to their length. She found her lorgnettes and surveyed (so to speak) the absent men-servants with blank misgivings. A maid advanced for her jewel-case, but Mrs. Devereux, shutting her eyes, said “Thanks, I carry it,†and pressed it to her bosom. A butler would have had it. Meantime, Mrs. Wilmot, a hand to each cavalier, was descending from the omnibus. She was a pretty, bedraped lady, with wide blue Greuze eyes, and soft lips, always wet and mostly apart. She murmured, “How kind you are to me,†and liked it from Ingram to Chevenix. Ingram said nothing, but Chevenix dropped down his brisk “By Jove, Mrs. Wilmot, that's nothing to what Icoulddo for you—nothing at all.†And then they turned to the house.
When Miss Percival, looking frailer than she really was because of her black gown, fairer, that is, and paler, entered the hall, she found the party at a loose end. Mr. Chevenix was in a deep chair, turning overBradshaw, and whistling softly to himself. Ingram, hands in pockets, was deprecating the portraits of his ancestors to the two ladies, who were not at all interested in them. He appeared to be considerably bored by his guests, and they to be aware of it. Miss Percival's arrival was timely, if only because she effectively chased outennui. Chevenix, as if he had been waiting for her, jumped up and went to meet her. He shook hands. “Hulloa, Sancie!†he was heard distinctly to say. “By Jove, I'm glad to see you again.†The latter sentence was not quite audible, but sufficiently so to send Mrs. Devereux' lorgnettes up to her nose. Sanchia herself, receiving civilities as if born to them, impelled her to keep them there. She had appeared silently and suddenly out of the blue. And now she hovered, smiling, fair, and unconcerned, like a goddess out of a chariot come to deal judgment, and listened charitably to Mr. Chevenix. How odd! How more than odd! Mrs. Wilmot looked as if her eyes were full of tears, but let nothing escape her. As for Ingram, he greeted the apparition with a smile and a nod sideways. But Mrs. Devereux could have sworn to a scare in the eye. “How are you, Sanchia?†he said, and then to his guests, “Miss Percival will show you where you all are, if you'll—Dinner's at half-past eight, I believe. At least, it always used to be; but I've been away for a year, and they may have changed all that. Have you, by the way?†he asked, with a sudden turn to Miss Percival.
She looked calmly at him. “No. It's still at half-past eight,†she said. He lit his cigarette.
“Will you show these ladies their rooms?†he required of her, adding as an afterthought, “Mrs. Devereux, Mrs. Wilmot. Mrs. Wilmot has a maid somewhere.â€
It was a quasi-introduction, awkwardly done. Sanchia gravely bowed, and all might have been well had not her gentle smile persisted. The baffling quality of this, the archaic enigma of it, made Mrs. Wilmot stare at her helpless with brimming blue eyes. It made Mrs. Devereux shiver. It was she, however, who accepted the inclination of the head. “Good evening to you,†she said. The housekeeper! This—person! The pair of them followed her upstairs, Mrs. Devereux marching before, like one of the oldregimeto the guillotine, Mrs. Wilmot trailing in her wake.
Young Chevenix, when they had disappeared, returned with a grin to hisBradshaw. “No change from Sanchia,†he said; and “Let's see:Birmingham depart4.45. By Gad, that's a good train. No,†he resumed; “no change out of Sancie. How long is it since you were here, Nevile?â€
Ingram was staring blankly out of window. “I think a year. I don't know. You went out with me to Brindisi, I believe, and that was April, and so's this—just. So you can work it out. D'you want me to fix you up? You're in the east wing, you know—I expect you are, anyhow. Where you were before.â€
“Right,†said Chevenix; “right. Only we're none of us where we were before, my boy. Don't flatter yourself.†He shutBradshawwith a bang, and went off, singing softly, to a tune of his own, “No change, no change from Sanchia,†which he turned into “Who is Sanchia? What is she, that all our swains...?â€
{Illustration: The housekeeper! This—person!}
Miss Percival, having played the exact and perfect housekeeper above—with no apparent interest in life but submergence in her duties—returned to the ground floor and sought Minnie in the dining-room. She made her survey calmly, and gave such orders as pertained in smooth tones which could not jar. She seemed to consult where she really directed. “Shall we have theepergne?I think we will, don't you? Yes. It's a grand occasion. I don't think we have ever had ladies at Wanless before.†An admission which staggered Minnie. Her “Oh, yes, Miss Percival,†and “Oh, no, Miss Percival,†were appreciative and good to hear.
She was butler, we find, as well as housekeeper, for as she stood there, meditating the table, Ingram came in, in a hurry, with ideas about wine. He gave them out in jerks, without looking at her. Sherry, of course, a hock, Lafite. No champagne: it's beastly unless you are tired. Oh, and old brandy—the very old. Nothing of the sort to be had in India. The climate kills it. He stood very close to her as he spoke. When he remembered the brandy he put his hand on her shoulder, and finding it there, kept it so. Minnie presently went out of the room upon affairs; and then he looked into her face and said in a new tone, “How are you, Sancie?†He let his hand slide down, encircled her waist lightly with his arm. She gave him her grey eyes and a slow, patient smile. “I am quite well,†she said. “Are you?†Ingram, watching her still, seemed disconcerted, as if he wanted to say or do more, but couldn't, for some reason. What he did was to remove his hand quickly and thrust it into his trouser pocket. It might have been suddenly stung, judging from his way of whipping it away. “Oh, I'm all right, of course. I must go and dress, I suppose.†A year is a long time for an absence. In the doorway he stopped and looked back, a last look. “Supper in my room, you know. We'll talk.†She held to her mysteries, and he went.
Dinner passed gaily, Miss Percival away. Ingram was loquacious, though rather caustic; Chevenix a good foil, easy-tempered, always at a run, a very fair marksman for all his random shooting. His was that happy disposition which finds Nature at large, including men, as precisely there for his amusement. He relished, never failed to relish, the works of God. But then he had perfect health. Mrs. Devereux was something of a grandee, though not quite so much of one as she suspected. Her white hair towered; she wore black velvet and diamonds. Mrs. Wilmot was very much of a pretty woman, and knew to the turn of a hair how much. She had the air of a spoiled child, which became her; was golden and rosy; could pout; had dark blue eyes, which she could cloud at will, and fill, as we know, with tears. She excelled in pathetic silences, to which her parted lips gave an air of being breathless. She was beautifully dressed in cloudy, filmy things, and had a soft, slight, drooping figure. Innocence was herforte: her rings were superb.
One odd thing was noticeable, and noticed intensely by Chevenix, that Ingram hardly ate anything, though he pretended to a hearty meal. It came, Chevenix saw, to dry toast and three glasses of wine, practically. But he made great play with knife and fork, and talked incessantly. He revealed himself at every turn of his monologue—for it came to be a monologue—as one of those men whose motives are so transparently reasonable to themselves that they need never be at the trouble to explain or defend any act of theirs. He was witty, though occasionally brutal, as when he spoke of a dragoman he had had in Egypt, whose defence of hisharemhad cost him his place. This man, a cultivated Persian, had proposed hospitality to his patron in Alexandria, where he lived. Accepted, he had made a great supper for Ingram, invited his friends and acquaintances, procured musicians and dancing-girls. It was magnificent, Ingram allowed. The trouble came afterwards, when the native guests had gone their ways and patron and host were together. Ingram proposed a visit to the ladies—“the civil thing, it appeared to me. But no, if you please! Mirza turned very glum, pronounced it not the custom: I must excuse him, he says. But I say, Will they excuseme, my good man? He makes a sour face, so of course I know that they won't, and that he knows they won't. Then he marches away upon some errand or another, and when he comes back finds me tapping at a door. You never saw such a change in a chap; upon my soul, it was worth it. He went white, he went grey, he went livid. His eyes were like stars. No, I'm wrong. They were not. They were like the flaming swords which kept Adam and Eve out of the garden. Magnificent police arrangements in Eden, they had. I heard his breath whistle through his nose like the wind at a keyhole. He says 'You mistake, sir. You forget. Or do I deserve to be insulted?' I told him that I was the insulted person in the party, and the ladies came next. I swear I heard a chuckle behind the door. That I swear to.â€
Chevenix, round-eyed and staring, was heard to mutter, “Good old Nevile! Well, I'll be shot....†Ingram cut short his tale.
“I can't go into what followed. Much of it was irrelevant, all of it was preposterous. It ended by Mirza directing me to the nearest hotel, in perfect English. The crosser he got, the better his English. That's odd, you know. Of course, I chucked the chap. He lost a soft billet.â€
There were no comments from the auditory, save such as Mrs. Wilmot's eyes may have afforded. She sighed, and laid her hand for one moment, caressingly, upon her neck. Her rings were certainly superb.
The dessert being on the table, Minnie served the old brandy and retired. Ingram drank of it freely, and began his cigarette the moment that the coffee and spirit-flame appeared. The ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, and Mrs. Wilmot sought the piano. But two chords had not been touched before her eyes found those of Mrs. Devereux, who stood by the fire. Eyebrows exchanged signals.
Then Mrs. Devereux said, “I am most uncomfortable,†and Mrs. Wilmot sighed, “I know.â€
The quiet cause of discomfort, slippered and loose-robed, sat meanwhile in an easy-chair, with her feet in the fender. Her hair floated free about her shoulders, silky from the brush. She had a book on her knees, but did not read it. Instead she looked into the fire, frowning.
Faint lines now printed themselves upon her face; two between her brows, one defining the round of each fair cheek. Her eyes showed fathomless sapphire: whatever her thoughts were of they held the secret close. Their gaze was one of fascination, as if she saw things in the fire terrible and strange, figures of the past or of the future, from which she could not turn her face. The curve of her upper lip, where it lay along its fellow and made a dimpled end, sharpened and grew bleak. Poring and smiling into the fire, she looked like a Sibyl envisaging the fate of men, not concerned in it, yet absorbed, interested in the play, not at all in the persons. This friend of Mrs. Benson, this midnight mate of young gardeners, disturber of high ladies' comfort, serene controller of Wanless, she was, it would seem, all things to all men, as men could take her. But now she had the fell look of a cat, the long, sleek, cruel smile, the staring and avid eyes. A cat she might be, playing with her own beating heart, patting it, watching its throbs.
These moments of witchcraft gazing were not many. They had been deliberately begun, and were deliberately done with. Within their span her cares were faced and co-ordinated; and the business over, she sighed and sank more snugly into her chair. She leaned back; her hands crossed themselves in her lap; she shut her eyes. All the lines upon her face softened, melted away. She looked now like an Oread aswoon in the midday heats, pure of thought or dread or memory. Her bosom below her laces rose and fell gently. She slept.
Outside, in the dusky dark, was one who padded up and down the grass on noiseless feet, passing and repassing the window, with an eye for the narrow chink of light.
She slept for a very short time. Towards ten o'clock she awoke. Collecting herself luxuriously, she was seen to face her facts again. Evidently they held her eyes waking; they were dreadfully there, still unresolved or still unpalatable. Before them now she plainly quailed. The flush of her sleep gave delicacy to her carven beauty; she looked fragile and tremulous; it would seem that a little more pity of herself would bring her to tears. As if she knew it, she took her measures, rose abruptly, and after two turns about the room went to a safe, opened it, and plunged herself into the ledger-book, which she took from it. Upon that and a cash-box—with certain involuntary pauses, in which her eyes concentrated and stared—she remained closely engaged until half-past eleven.
At that hour, having ascertained it, she put by her work, went into her bedroom, and began a deliberate and careful toilet. She was pale, serious, and evidently rather scared at herself; she lifted her eyebrows and opened wide her eyes. But she did what she had to do as daintily as ever Amina, in the Arab tale, figured her rice. A person of great simplicity, who did extraordinary things in an ordinary way, at the hour when all Wanless was going to bed, she brushed and banded her shining hair, and dressed herself in silk and lace as for a dinner party. To herself in the glass she gave and received again a face of pure pity and sorrow. She saw herself lovely and love-worthy, sleek under the caress of her own beauty. Yet she knew exactly what she was about to do, and how she would do it, and did not falter at all.
At a quarter past twelve her summons came—a knock at the door, the turning of the handle, the push to open, and Ingram's voice. “Come along, Sancie,†he said, and went away without any more ceremony. She got up from her chair, put her book down, having marked her place, and followed him after a few minutes' meditation. Ingram's quarters were on the ground floor of the house, as hers were, but in the opposite wing. She had two rooms in the western arm of the E; the whole of the eastern was his.
He was at table when she came in and shut the door behind her, at a table fairly naped, with fine glass, silver, and flowers upon it. There was hothouse fruit, too, a melon, a little pyramid of strawberries in fig-leaves. He was eating smoked salmon and bread and butter with appetite. By his side, half empty, was a champagne glass. A pint bottle stood at his elbow.
He hailed her gaily, with a jerk of his head, a “Come along,†and a lifted glass. Leaning back as she came on, watching and waiting for her, he stretched out his left arm. She smiled rather conventionally, did not meet his eyes, but came within reach. His arm encircled her, and drew her in. “Well, my girl, well!†he said, glancing up, laughing, tempting her to laugh. She looked down gently, blushing a little, and condescended to him, stooped and brushed his forehead with her lips. Condescension expresses her act. It was exactly done as one would humour an importunate child, excuse its childishness, and grant it its desire of the moment.
So it must have been felt by him, for there was a sharp, short tussle of wills. She would have had him contented, but he was not so to be contented. There was a little struggle, much silent entreaty from him, much consideration from her above him—her doubting, judging, discriminating eyes, her smile, half-tender and half-scornful; but in the end he kissed her lips, the more ardently for their withholding. Then he allowed her to sit by the table, not far off, and resumed his smoked salmon and his zest. She declined to share the meal; was neither hungry nor thirsty, she said. “Have your own way, my dear,†he concluded the match; “you'll feel all the better for it, I know.†She cupped her chin in her hand, and watched the play of knife and fork, her thoughts elsewhere.
“Now, Sancie,†he said presently, in his usual direct manner, “how long is it since I've seen you?â€
She answered at once, without looking up, “A year and ten days.â€
He shook his head. “That's too long. That's absurd. I don't like that kind of thing, as a man domestically inclined. But I've been a devil of a way. I wrote to you—from where?â€
“From Singapore,†she told him.
“So I did. I remember. But I went to Egypt before that. First-rate place, Egypt. I know it well, but am always glad to be there. Fine river of its own. We went to Khartoum, and two marches beyond; then Singapore and the Straits, Burmah, Ceylon; then India. Didn't I write to you from India?â€
“Yes,†she told him. She was balancing a salt-spoon idly on a wine-glass, and seemed scarcely to listen. He rattled on.
“Had great days in India. Shooting, fishing, pig-spearing; polo, dances, rajahs, pretty women, pow-wows of sorts, and a chance of a fight. All in a year, my friend—I beg your pardon—and ten days. Quick work, eh? One crowded year of glorious life. A cycle of Cathay.â€
She was looking at her saltspoon, stretched beyond her the length of her arm. “I'm sure you were very happy.â€
He looked at her directly. “Oh, I was, you know. Otherwise, I guess I should have written. I was idiotically happy. And you?â€
“I was busy,†she told him, “idiotically busy.†He laughed gaily.
“That's one for me—and a shrewd one. Oh, you deep-eyed scamp! Sancie, you never give yourself away. I've noticed that many and many a time. And not I only, I can assure you. Bill Chevenix, now—-â€
Her thoughts, her regard, were far away from a world of Ingrams and Chevenixes. She may have heard, but she gave no sign. He rattled on.
“Oh, you're splendid, of course you're splendid. The comfort of you! I go off to the ends of the world—without a care left behind me—or taken with me, by Jove! No bothers, no worry—letters opened, the right ones, answered and done with. Letters forwarded, the right ones, unopened. How you can guess, it beats me! No worry. You don't ask me to write to you—or expect it. You don't write to me—and I don't expect it. You know me just as I know you. There's a confidence, a certainty about you. That's what's so splendid. There can't be a girl in the world like you.†He clasped her in triumph. “My Sancie! Back I come at the end of my time, and everything's in apple-pie order. And to crown all, there's you at the door, to welcome me—and wait your turn—and wait your turn. Always the same—my wise, fine Sanchia!†He leaned forward, picked up and held her hand. “My dear, I love you,†he said, and jumped up and kissed her. Then, as he stood above her, the triumphant young man, with the hand of possession on her shoulder, “Upon my word,†he declared to the assembled universe, “this is a very satisfactory world, so far as I am concerned.â€
When he was seated again, and invited her to talk domestic affairs, she returned from her reverie, and gathered in all her self-possession. The estate, the household, the parish, the county: there was no mistaking his interest in these matters. He was interested in the smallest particulars: her broods of young chicks, her pigeons, the tabby cat's kittens, the Rector's baby. He asked searching questions. How many cows were in milk just now; when would Menzies have asparagus fit to eat? The servants—was all well there? Their young men? Nothing escaped him. She was quite ready for him, took a dry tone, showed a slight sense of the humour of the situation, descended to trifles, had statistics at her fingers' ends. She met him, in a word, as he wished to be met, as jointly concerned in these minute affairs.
He lit a cigar, and drew her to the fire. He would have had her on his knee, but she would not. She sat on a straight chair beside his easy one, and allowed him to play with her hand.
He talked now in jerks, between puffs, of his adventures; his first shot at a tiger, some trouble with hillmen at Peshawur, a row at a mess-table, in which two chaps lost their heads, and one his papers. He had been present as a guest, but had kept well in the background. There had been a lot of drinking done—luckily he was all right. He had a good head, you see; could carry a lot of stuff.
He had, by the way, “picked up†that little Mrs. Wilmot on board ship. She was coming home in the convoy of Mrs. Devereux. Of course he had known Mrs. Devereux for years; she was an institution. The little Wilmot person was a widow, it seemed. Niceish sort of young woman; knew the Trenchards up here, was a kind of cousin of Lady Trenchard's. In fact, she was going on to them from here; but not due for a week or so. She had, you might say, asked to be asked, or spelled for it out of those eyes of hers. You get awfully friendly on board ship, you must know. You can say anything—and do most things—oh, all sorts of things! He had no objection—to her coming, he meant; indeed, he rather liked the young party. He thought Chevenix did, too. But Chevenix was very much at Sanchia's disposal; “he talked a lot about seeing you again, my girl.†To meet him again might carry her mind back—how long? Eight stricken years. Was it possible that she—he and she—had been here together eight years? Yes, he could see that she remembered. Dear, sweet Sancie!
There was bravado here on his part, and nervousness to be discerned beneath it; for it is most certain that her reverie was not exactly as he would have it. Her chin was in her hand, her caught other hand lay idle in his own; her eyes were far-gazing and sombre; her smile was bleak. Whatever she heard, whatever she thought of, she betrayed nothing.
Her brooding calm spurred him in that sensitive spot whose throb or ache tells a man whether he is centre of a woman's mind or not. He must know whether she was glad to have him back; the wanderer returned, eh? She had not told him so yet, he must observe; no, nor looked it. She was mysterious, it seemed to him. “And you can speak with your eyes, my dear; none better. Your tongue was never very loose; but your eyes! Now, you know what you can do with them, Sancie; you know very well. Speak to me, then, my dear, speak to me. Speak to me only with thine ... no, notonly!You can speak in a thousand ways—with your hands, with the tips of your fingers placed here or there, with a bend of the head on that lovely neck you have, with your faint colour, with your quick breath.†...
Fired by his own words, he worked himself into enthusiasm, was enamoured of what himself proclaimed. “My beautiful—my goddess!†he called her, and drew her to his heart.
And she allowed him, allowed herself to be pressed there, while within her the dull fire smouldered, and the deep, slow resentment gathered like clouds about the sun. But he held her face now between his two hands and forced to meet his own her unresponsive eyes; and when with ardour he had kissed her grave lips, the flippancy of a fool ruined him, and his triumph was flattened into dust, as when one crushes a puff-ball.
He suddenly held her at arms' length as he was struck by an idea. “Oh, by the way, I forgot,†he said, and looked vaguely across the room. “Claire is dead.â€
Sanchia's eyes concentrated and paled. The pupils of them were specks. She paled to the lips, then slowly flooded as with a tide of sanguine. She withdrew herself from him; simply dropped him off her. She said nothing; but she watched him steadily, while within her the masked fire gleamed and fitfully leapt.
Bravado made him hold on to his airy tone. “She died, I'm told, at Messina, some time in March. I heard it at Marseilles. Met a man who told me. Yes! She's dead—and buried.â€
Sanchia had nothing to say. She looked, however, towards the door—and he detected that. Her silence spread about the room, caught him and enveloped him. That she was calculating how long it would be before she could escape by that door was absolutely clear, and the frost of her silence struck down upon him so that he could not gainsay her purpose. He paused irresolute, glancing askance at her directed eyes. Then he gave in, left her, opened the door for her. She went out, folded in her own mystery, but as she went by him he caught up her hand, and kissed the fingers. They were very cold, and made him shiver.
“Good-night, my dear,†he said, all his dash gone out of him.
She said good-night very simply and went away. He looked after her until she had turned the corridor, then went to the table and poured himself brandy and soda-water, drank deeply, and set down the tumbler with a crash. “By God! I am a fool,†he told himself.
From the garden that narrow chink of light which shone through Ingram's shutter was seen to collapse by one who watched it. Shortly afterwards, that same haunter of the dark saw a shining slit part the shutters of a window in the west wing, and sighed, short and quick. He returned, to prowl among the secret flowers.
When, after dinner, Mrs. Devereux had told her young friend that she was uncomfortable, there had been no need of the words; but the slow answering “I know†with which Mrs. Wilmot expressed sympathy was not intended to imply that she shared the feeling. She herself was not at all uncomfortable, because, while she saw the whole state of affairs, she was not unhopeful of coping with it. Touching the place where the tender point of her breast lay nestling, she assured herself that she could hope. But Mrs. Devereux, moving about in worlds not realised, was incensed. Nothing that followed during the next few days served to clear the surcharged air. It is hard to say what vexed her most, where all was as it should not be. Ingram, bluntly unconscious of her sufferings, gloomed over his own; Chevenix spied about for what he could not find, spy as he would, and made the cause of woe more conspicuous than ever. As for her, the disastrous fair, the deliberation with which she went about her duties, and ease with which she did or caused them to be done; her self-possession, gentleness, suavity, yes! and benevolence, were sights to make angels weep. Tears of blood! If Mrs. Devereux, by any means, could have compressed tears of blood, they had been shed. Nothing less vivid would have met the case: to exhibit her scarlet handkerchief to Ingram with a “There, see, I weep. Tears of blood!†Day by day in that mild spring weather, under pale blue skies, fanned by zephyrs, she could but pace the terrace walks, and stiffen herself, and stare about her—with dull disapproval for the very flowers, lest theirs, too, should be frail beauty, and repeat for her only comfort that she was most uncomfortable. So she was. But it was because she did not understand, not because she did. Curiosity ravaged her.
On one of these days, breakfast over at half-past ten, young Mr. Chevenix declared his intention with cheerfulness and point. “Twentieth of April—Dizzy's birthday, or Shakespeare's. Nevile, I'm going to fish your river. They are leaping like the boys inEugene Aram,and I'm going to give them something to leap at. Now, what are all you people going to do? Because, I'll be free with you, I don't want you to come and look on. Mrs. Devereux, I let you off. You needn't gillie me. Nevile, you run away and play. Amuse Mrs. Wilmot. Do now: she likes it. I'm all right.â€
The elder lady fixed him keenly with a look which saw through his saucy assurance; Ingram's eyes sought those of Mrs. Wilmot across the table. She lent him their wonder for a moment, then looked down at her bosom. He was satisfied. There were still women in the world.
“What shall we do?†he asked her. “Will you be driven? Will you drive? Will you ride?†Another shaft rewarded him, which said, “Do with me as you will.â€
Ingram rang the bell. Minnie appeared. “Tell Frodsham, the horses at a quarter past eleven. I ride Sea-King, Mrs. Wilmot Lorna Doone. He had better come—or Butters will do. That's all.â€
Mrs. Devereux had been ignored, but was not displeased. It showed, at least, that Ingram knew she was not to be disposed of like a white rabbit. It was, however, necessary to say something, to declare one's presence, as it were; so she collected her papers. “I have letters to write. You will excuse me, I know.â€
Chevenix sprang to the door. “By George, I should think so,†he said, which was well intended, but too brisk. He bowed her out, shut her out, and stood with his eyes on the others.
Ingram remained before the fire looking out of window. “She's in a wax. I don't know why.â€
“Oh, don't you, my boy?†said Chevenix to himself.
Mrs. Wilmot trifled with her tea-spoon. “And I don't care—much,†he added. Mrs. Wilmot smiled.
Mr. Chevenix, going a-fishing, saw, as he had intended to see, Sanchia in the rose-garden, talking to Struan Glyde, who was tying ramblers. “Morning, Sanchia—morning, Glyde!†Each greeted him, but the youth grimly.
He talked at large. “I'm for murder. I must flesh my steel. It's too good a day to lose. Clouds scurry, sun is shy; air's balmy: a trout must die. That is very nearly poetry, Sancie. It is as near poetry as I can hope to get this side the harps and quires. Now, what on earth is Clyde doing to his roses at this time of year?â€
The dark-skinned, sharp-chinned young man, aproned and shirt-sleeved, turned a shade darker. His black eyes glowed. He was quietly arrogant, even to her. “It doesn't matter,†he had once told her, “what you say or do. I love you, and that's the sum and end of it.†Now he allowed her to answer for him.
“There was a wind in the night which tore them about. I asked him to make them safe. I hate to think of their bruised ribs.â€
Chevenix whistled his satisfaction with this and all things else. “I see. Works of mercy. There's a blessing on that, somewhere and somewhen. All to the good, you know, Clyde. You never know your luck, they tell me.†He left Clyde and his roses, and turned to the young lady. “Well now, look here, Sancie—if works of mercy are toward, what d'you say to one on your own account? Here I stand, an orphan boy, upon my honour. The master's gone riding with the widow.†He stopped his rattle, as a thought struck him serious for a moment. “By George, and he's a widower—so he is!†Discharged of that, he resumed—“Yes, and Mrs. Devereux has got the hump, as they say—and here I am at your mercy, to be made much of. Who's going to admire me? Who's going to hold my net? Who's going to say, 'Oh, what a beauty!'†He had now got her thoroughly at her old ease with him. Her eyes gleamed, and there was no doubting her smile. “Now, I'll tell you what. Your roses are all right. Glyde will see to that. You leave that to Glyde and his strong right arm. His strength is as the strength of ten, because... you follow me, I think? Now, Sancie, I put it to you—I'm an old friend of the family, and haven't seen you for—how many years? Aren't you going to give me half-an-hour of your morning?â€
He pleaded by looks. He was quizzical, but in earnest. Her brow was clear.
“Yes,†she said. “I'll come—for half-an-hour.â€
“Right! Right, goddess of the silver brake. Come, hold the pass with me.†He turned to go, and she caught him up. “I mix my poets like salad, but that's because I'm in such high spirits. By Jove, Sancie, itisgood to see you again.†She met his laughing eyes with hers. She swam by his side—took his net, and was happy. Her face glowed. She had the power of casting troubles behind, recuperative power, resiliency. Glyde, the olive-faced, watched them down the walk, and owned to a heart of lead. “As well shut down the west wind as a spirit like hers!†He turned to his affair.
Below the steps, in the nut-walk which led to the bridge, Chevenix altered his tone. “It's good of you to come with me, Sancie, my dear. I'm a very friendly beggar, and Nevile, you know—I say!†and he turned her a sober face—“You know, I suppose? His wife—eh? Dead, you know. Oh, but of course you did!â€
She met him unfalteringly. “Yes, he told me.â€
Chevenix shrugged. “I must say, you know—what? Oh, of course, it was a ghastly affair all along. Butyouknow all that, as well as I do. Why, her temper! Oh, awful! I've seen her myself dead-white in one of her rages—she had hold of a wine-glass so hard that it snapped, and cut her hand. She looked at the blood—she didn't know how it happened. And he—well,youought to know—was as bad, in his way. 'Pon my soul, Sancie, Vesuvius might just as well have married Etna—every bit. But there! What's the good of talking! Everybody knew how it would be.†Words failing him, he stared about him.
“But still—oh, damn it all! To hear of your wife's death—casually—on a platform—from a chap you happen to know—happen to have met somewhere—oh, well, I call it casual. That's the word, I believe—casual. Well, itispretty casual—what? Now, just tell me what you think—between friends, of course.â€
She stopped him: she was short in the breath. “I think not. If you don't mind.â€
He became as serious, immediately, as he was capable of being. “I'll do as you like, my dear—but you'll let me say this, that if I could see you with all your belongings about you again, I should sing a hymn. That's all, Sancie; but it means a lot. When you went out of Great Cumberland Place, it became, somehow, another kind of place. I hardly ever go there now, you know. And now they're all married but you, and—I say, you heard that Vicky had a son and heir? Did you hear that?â€
She had averted her face, but she listened intensely, nodding her head. “Yes, yes, I knew that. Papa told me. He always writes to me, you know; from the office, poor darling!â€
She appealed to him urgently. “Please don't talk about them just yet. Please don't.â€
He saw the mist in her eyes, and was afraid. “All right, Sancie, all right. I'm frightfully sorry. Beastly painful all this, you know.†He was much disturbed. To his simple soul a fine day, a fine-fettled river demanded, as of right, a happy mood in man, for whom all things were made. And a fine girl by his side, a good, a brave, a splendid girl—down on her luck—on such a day! What could one do? If, when you began, she choked you off! Wouldn't meet you half-way—bottled it up! And here he was, geared for fishing, and without the heart to wet a line, because of all this misery. Sanchia, sharply in profile to him, from cheek to chin, from shoulder to low breast, all one sinuous, lax, beautiful line, broke in on his rueful meditations. “There's a rise,†she said. “Look, look.â€
His eye swept the river. “You're right. By Gad, that's a whacker. That's a fish. Now, you stop just where you are, net in hand. Don't move, and you shall see something.â€
He left her, and ran stooping down the bank, all his little soul concentrated in his cast. The dimpled water ran and swirled, the line flashed in the sun. Three casts, four; a splash, a taut line, and his shout, “Come on, quick; I've got him.†Sanchia glided swiftly down the bank, her eyes alight, the lines of neck and shoulder finely alert. Her eyes shone, her lips parted; she looked the Divine Huntress to whom Senhouse had once likened her. She stooped, the net jerked; she watched, waited, tense to the act. Within the swirling water the great fish plunged: she watched, strung to the pounce; the net dipped and darted; she lifted it to land.
Chevenix admired. “By George, you are a one—er, I must say! Born to it. You strike like an osprey. That's a fish—what?†They peered together into the net, where, coiled and massy, beaming rose and pale gold, the trout writhed.
“Splendid!†breathed Sanchia, glowing and alight.
Chevenix gloried in her beauty. “If Nevile don't know what his chances are—if he ain't on his knees—my heavens, what a mate for a chap!â€
A shadow falling upon him caused him to look up. Mrs. Devereux, grey and tall, boa'd, gloved, umbrella'd, stood regarding him and his companion from the bank. Instinct prompted him immediately to screen Sanchia by dragging her into the party. He held up the net and plunged. “First prize,†he cried out, as heartfully as he could, “to me and Miss Percival.â€
“So I see,†said Mrs. Devereux. “Ah, good morning.â€
This was to Sanchia's bland greeting, which, as always, made the lady shiver. It is difficult to say what a shock it was to her to be greeted cheerfully by Sanchia. To see one in so painful a situation occupied by anything less painful, interested in anything at all, was truly shocking. Mrs. Devereux's idea of irregularity was that it absorbed the devoted victim, kept her aghast. If it did not, surely, there was no reward left to the virtuous. But here we had a highly irregular young woman behaving with extreme regularity. Was the world turning upside down? Was black, then, really white? She shivered, she blinked her eyes; but she descended the bank and stood beside the pair, yet rigidly apart.
Chevenix, having got her there, knew not what to do with her. It seemed to him that he had better, on the whole, go on, so turned the lady a knowing face.
“This is not the first time by any means that Miss Percival and I have gone fishing, you must know. We began by tickling 'em—we were urchins together, you see.â€
“Really!†said Mrs. Devereux, who still saw nothing but depravity.
“I remember,†he went on, “the first time we went fishing. I was at Alnmouth with a governess; awful lonely little beggar I was. I used to moon about on the sands, while she read theMorning Post, with spectacles and a red parasol. And I used to hanker about all the other young 'uns, and wish I was one of 'em.Herparty was there, you know—five of 'em, all girls and all pretty girls—eh, Sancie? I would have given my hopes of heaven—if I'd had any, you know—to go and paddle with 'em. Jolly party you were, my dear—jolly old plump papa, rosy mamma—and Philippa like a young tree, and Melusine and Hawise bright as apples; and then Vicky and you—little dears, you were. I was like a spent salmon, I believe, lantern jawed, hollow-eyed little devil, as solitary as sin.†He turned, flushed, to Sanchia, and put his hand on her arm; she turned away her face, and Mrs. Devereux believed she saw tears. “It wasyouwho took me in, you know.â€
“No,†said Sanchia, turning him her shining eyes. “It was Vicky. She asked you to come fishing.†He accepting her ruling.
“Bless me, itwasVicky. Always a frisky one. But after that it was always you and Vicky and me. And we had the time of our lives—at least, I did.†Even Mrs. Devereux felt an emotion from the beam with which Sanchia rewarded him—a tender, compassionate look, as if she understood and excused him.
“You are old friends, I see,†she said; and her smile was not unfriendly.
Chevenix shook his head wisely. “Frightfully old—I've known 'em all—all my life.†Mrs. Devereux then made a distinct advance.
“It must be very nice for you,†she said to Sanchia.
Sanchia's eyes were now clear, and her smile absolutely general. “To see Mr. Chevenix? Yes, indeed.†She collected herself. “But I'm afraid I must go now. I've a great deal to do.†She admonished the young man. “Now you had better catch some more,†she told him. “I must go.â€
His face fell—without any regard for Mrs. Devereux—to “Oh, I say!†but it was then revealed to him that there might be a part for him to play. “Right, Sancie—you're mistress here. See you later.†He met her eyes gallantly, and lifted his hat. Sanchia bent her head to Mrs. Devereux, and went staidly away, her duties gathering in her brows. The elder lady and the young man stood face to face without speaking. Then Mrs. Devereux sat deliberately down, and Chevenix braced himself.
“You said just now,†the lady began, “to Miss Percival, that she was mistress here. What did you mean by that, exactly?â€
Chevenix sprang sideways to this flank attack. “Oh, you know, Mrs. Devereux! you can't take a chap—literally—what?â€
He wanted time; but she gave him none. “You must forgive an old woman of the world—of a certain world. I come here—to a house which belonged to Nevile's father, an old, old friend, and I find—installed—a young lady—who does not dine—who is extremely capable. I am bewildered, naturally.â€
Chevenix's “I know, I know,†and his friendly nods ran on as an accompaniment.
“And then,†said she, raising her voice, “I find that this young lady—and you—are old friends. You speak of her—people—as if they were really—of the sort which—as if she were—of the kind—whom—†It was impossible. “Really,†she said, “it's most unusual. I don't frankly know what I ought to do.â€
Chevenix listened carefully to her truncated phrases, where what she did not say was the most eloquent part of her discourse. He nodded freely and sagely; he was conciliatory, but clear in opinion. “I know, I know,†he said. “It's very rum—you must naturally find it so. I know exactly how you feel about it. Oh, rum's the only word for it. Or rummy. Yes, you might call it rummy—or a go, you know—or anything like that.†Then he grew plausible. “But I'm sure it's all right. It's a long story, but I'm quite sure. You've no idea what a fine girl that is. Ah, but I know it.†He tapped his forehead. “I saw the whole thing through—from beginning to end. She's a perfect beauty, to begin with.â€
That was a bad note. Mrs. Devereux asked him at once if he thought that a good reason. “Well,†he said, “I do, you know—in a way. I can't explain it—but I think you see it in her face, you know—and manner. Yes, in her manner. She's uncommon, you see, most uncommon. And as cool as—well, it would be hard to say how cool a hand I thought her.†He paused, having got off this effective estimate, round-eyed and triumphant.
“It seems to me, Mr. Chevenix,†said the dry lady, “that the less you say the better.â€
“Not at all, Mrs. Devereux, not at all.†He was eager to explain. “I don't think you quite follow me. What I meant to say was, that when a young woman can be as cool as she can be; can run a big place like this, and manage a staff of servants,—outdoors, mind you, and in; no steward, only a bailiff; keep all the accounts; and hold her head up—for she does that, you know, uncommonly well; why, then I say that she must be allowed the benefit of the doubt, you know. You must say, 'Well, it's rum, it's rummy,' or how you like to put it—'but she's got a head on her shoulders, and I suppose she knows what she's doing. I suppose she's seen her way.' For she's all right, you know, Mrs. Devereux; she's as right as rain. It's irregular, dashed irregular—but, by George, I'll tell you this, Nevile was in a bad way when he first met her; and she's pulled him through. He's steady enough now, is Nevile. Don't drink—nor do other things. He threatened to be a waster in his day; but he's no waster now. She did that, you know; she pulled him through. Why, bless your heart, Mrs. Devereux, he used to rave about her—rave, and chuck himself about on sofas, and cry like anything, and bite his nails down. There never was such a girl under heaven, he used to say. He called her a goddess. Love! Oh, Lord! And I assure you, on my solemn oath, that he never did a better day's work in his life, nor any girl a finer, than when he put in his word for himself, poor devil, and she said, 'Yes, I'll do it.'â€
“Did she—†Mrs. Devereux asked, or began to ask, and he shrugged, and exclaimed,
“Ah! There you have me. Now you've done it. I don't know. That's the fact—I don't know. Everybody thought so. She went on as if she did; but now,—no, I don't know. You see, she's such a cool hand, she's such a deep one—you can't tell. There's no telling with that sort. All I can say is, it looked uncommonly like the real thing. We all thought so at the time. The symptoms were right enough—or wrong enough, you'll say—and then, look at her since! She's stuck to him through everything—good report, bad report, everything. She's chucked her people—or been chucked. Had four beautiful sisters—glowing, upstanding, fine girls, all of them; and chucked. Old father, in the City: chucked. Mother, big, handsome, hot-tempered: chucked. And all for Nevile, who (between ourselves) ain't worth it. He's not a bad one, but he's not a good one, either. He's got a cruel temper, Nevile has—like that ghastly wife of his. But—†he cried, opening his arms—“there you are. They're like that, her sort. Mighty quiet about it, you know; was turned into the streets, you may say; father, mother, sisters, all showed their backs. What does she do? Sets her teeth together, looks straight ahead, and takes old Nevile. And here she is now oh, as—right as rain. What a girl, eh?â€
Mrs. Devereux was certainly moved. She was almost prepared to admit a genuinely exceptional case. But she had a question to ask. Did Ingram intend to marry her—now?
At this Chevenix stepped back, as if to avoid a blow. “Ah!†he said. “Ah! That's it. Ask me another.â€
“Do you mean to say of your friend, and mine,†she pursued him, “that he would dare—after all that you tell me—to—-â€
“No,†said Chevenix, in a desperate stew; “no, I don't mean that. I think he would have her this moment—if he could get her. But—the fact is—Well, you know—†and he glanced anxiously at the lady, “I've nothing to go upon, absolutely nothing as yet; but the fact is, I'm not sure whether she would take him, you know—now.â€
“Is that possible?†was all the lady could find to say, with a throw-up of the hands. “Is that possible?â€
“Quite—with Sanchia,†said Chevenix. “Through with him, you know—got to the bottom of him—sick of him. I believe he bores her, you know.†Mrs. Devereux looked at him, more in sorrow than in anger, and then walked slowly away. Most eloquent comment.