Whatever may have been the net result upon Mrs. Devereux's mind of the explanatory revelations made upon the river bank, two things became clear as day succeeded day. One was that Miss Percival avoided her, the other that she sought out Miss Percival. Being entirely unable to succeed, she did not renounce her now benevolent attitude towards the young lady, but she decided to leave Wanless.
All that she could do, she did. No wheedling of Mrs. Wilmot's could draw any further comment from her, and she said nothing to Ingram either for or against what she supposed now to be the desire, the honourable desire of his heart. Oddly enough, though it was against all her upbringing, Chevenix had so far succeeded in impressing her that she rather respected Sanchia the more for being cool now that rehabilitation was in full sight, and practically within touch of her hand. Chevenix, in fact, had made her see that Sanchia was a personality, not merely a pretty woman. You can't label a girl “unfortunate” if, with the chance of being most fortunate, she puts her hand to her chin, and reflects, and says, Hum, shall I? or shall I not? Short of deliberately knocking at the girl's door, she would have done anything to exchange views. That she could not do. She found herself waiting about in corridors and halls for Sanchia's possible passage. Once she had marked her down in the garden, flower-basket on arm, scissors in hand. She had been fluttered, positively felt her heart-beats, as she sailed down in pursuit; but then Sanchia, under the brim of her garden hat, must have divined her, for, with a few clear words of direction over her shoulder to the young gardener who was helping her, she had steered smoothly away, and, without running, could not have been caught. The thing was marked, not uncivilly, but quite clearly. What could one do?
Two more days of fine weather and perplexity, and she announced her departure as imminent. We were at Thursday. She must positively leave on Monday. “No more letters to write about my shortcomings,” was Ingram's comment upon this intelligence to Mrs. Wilmot apart. “It's a mistake to have people to stay with you who've known you all their lives. They are for ever at their contrasts: why isn't one still a chubby-faced boy, for instance? They see you in an Eton jacket once, and you're printed in it for ever. So you glare by contrast, you hurt, you wound. In other words, you have character, you see, which is dashed inconvenient to a woman who remembers you with none. You upset her calculations—and sometimes she upsets yours. No offence to Mrs. Devereux; but I rather wish she hadn't come.”
Mrs. Wilmot, who had no general conversation, thought that they ought to be “nice” to Mrs. Devereux; to which Ingram replied, snarling, that he was always “nice” to her, but that if a woman will spend her time writing letters or disapproving of her host, she can't expect to be happy in such a world as ours. But the worst of Mrs. Devereux, he went on to say, was that she couldn't be happy unless she did disapprove of somebody. Mrs. Wilmot, aware of whom the lady did disapprove, dug holes in the turf, and wondered what she herself ought to do. Supposing Mrs. Devereux went on Monday, ought not she—? Now, she didn't at all want to go just now.
At luncheon Ingram proposed a visit—to certain Sowerbys of Sowerby, and pointedly asked Mrs. Devereux to come. “You like her, you know. It's beyond dispute. So I do hope you'll come. I'll drive you over in the phaeton.”
Mrs. Devereux agreed to go. Chevenix said that he should fish. He hated calling—except on Mrs. Devereux, of course. He braved the discerning eyes of the lady, who had already caught him at his fishing.
The phaeton safely away, he found Sanchia, as he had hoped, in the garden. Her gauntlets were on, an apron covered her; she was flushed with the exercise of the hoe. Struan Glyde, silent and intent, worked abreast of her. He had just muttered something or another which had given her pause. She had her chin on her hands, her hands on her hoe, while she considered her reply. Then Chevenix heard her slow, “Yes, I suppose so. I don't like it at all, but I'm afraid you're right. We are poor creatures, made to be underneath.”
The cheerful youth rubbed his head. “Candid—what? Wherehavewe got to now?”
Glyde had stopped in the act to hoe: he was stopping still, his blade in the ground, but he turned his face sideways to answer her. “Not so,” he said, “unless you will have it so. She is queen of the world who is queen of herself.” Then Sanchia saw Chevenix, and waited for him.
“Philosophy—what?” the cheerful youth hailed them. “Plain living, hard thinking, what? Upon my soul, you are a pair! Now, Miss Sancie, I can expect the truth from you. What's Glyde preaching? Heresy? Schism? Sudden death?”
“He was talking about women,” Sanchia told him.
“Ah,” the youth mused aloud. “He was, was he? Glyde on Woman. He ought to wait for his beard to grow; then you might listen to him.”
Glyde, who was dumb in company, was hacking into the clods, while Chevenix, to whom he was negligible, pursued his own affair.
“I say, Sancie, I'm going to ask a favour of you—not the first, by any means; but I always was a sturdy beggar. The Lord loveth a sturdy beggar, eh? Well, look here, I'm at a loose end again. Nevile's taken 'em out driving—to a tea-party—to the Sowerbys. I jibbed, though I was asked. I lied, because they drove me into a corner. I couldn't face old Sowerby's chin—and all those gels with their embroidered curates—what? You know what I mean. I mean their church-work, and the curates they do it for. So I said I was going fishing—which was a lie—and Mrs. Devereux as good as said it was a lie. Now, suppose you invite me to tea; how would that be?”
“Then youdogo fishing,” said Sanchia, and smiled. “Very well. I do invite you.”
“Bravo! You're a true friend. O woman, in our hours of ease...! Trust me for an apposite quotation ... and new, what? I believe I'm pretty good at quotations. My people used to play a game. You write down a name on a bit of paper; then you fold it down; then a quotation; then another name. That's my vein of gold. Now you have it—the secret's out. I'm coming, you know. I accept. Many thanks. What's your hour?”
“Half-past four,” she told him. He bowed, and left her with Glyde. He turned to look at them as he left the walled garden, and saw them near together,—Glyde vehement in his still way of undertones, she listening as she worked.
At half-past four she received him in her room. Though her blouse was of lace and her skirt of green cloth, she looked like a virgin of the Athenian procession. Her clothes flowed about her, clung to her like weed as she swam. As he met her friendly, silent welcome, he expressed her to himself—“By the gods above, you are—without exception—the healthiest—finest—bravest—young woman—that ever made the sun shine in grey weather.” Aloud, he made things easy.
“Here's your tea-party, Sancie, dressed in its best, eager for the fray. When I think of old Sowerby taking whisky-pegs while his family has tea and curates, I bless my happy stars that I've got a friend at court—to save me, don't you know, from the wicked man. When the wicked man—what? You know the quotation, I expect. Not one of my best—but give me time.”
While she made tea he pried about her room, looking at photographs. He paused here and there as one struck him, and commented aloud. “Old Nevile, with his sour mouth. Looks as if the tongs had nipped him in the act. Whywillhe roll his moustache like that? It's not pretty—shows him like a boar, with his tusks out, don't you think? But he's a good-looking beggar, and knows it. Ah! and there you all are—or, rather, were—all five of you! Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Vicky, you. What a bevy! I say—” He turned to her. “I met old Vicky, for a minute, the other day. Met her in Bond Street. Sinclair'd got the pip, or something, down at Aldershot. Expensive complaint, seemingly. So she'd come up to see a palmist, or some kind of an expert about him. She spoke of you, of her own accord. I said I was coming down here.”
Sanchia's hand at the kettle was steady, but her eyes flickered before they took the veil. “Tell me about Vicky. What did she say—of me?”
Chevenix came to the tea-table and stood by her. “I think Vicky's all right. I do indeed. It seems to me she'd give her ears to see you—simple ears. Sinclair, you'll find, is the trouble. He's the usual airy kind of ass. Makes laws for his womankind, and has 'em kept. Vicky likes it, too.”
“I suppose he is like that,” Sanchia said, as if it was a curious case. “I have never spoken to him. He was about, of course—but Vicky took him up after—my time.” For a moment emotion, like a wet cloud, drifted across her eyes. “I should like to see Vicky again. It's eight years.”
Chevenix was anxious. “I do think it could be managed, you know—with tact. I'd do any mortal thing, Sancie—you know I would, but—” He despaired. “Tact! Tact! That's what you want.”
Her soft mood chased away. She looked at him full. “I can't use what you call tact with Vicky. That means that I am to grovel.” She drove him back to his photographs. He peered into the little print on the wall.
“What have we here? A domestic scene, my hat! You appear to be bathing—well over the knee, anyhow. High-girt Diana, when no man is by. Awfully jolly you look. But heisby. Who on earth's this chap?” He peered. Sanchia from her tea-table watched him, in happy muse. He shouted his discovery. “I remember the chap! Now, what on earth was he called? Your casual friend, who lived in a cart and only had three pair of bags. Nohouse—Senhouse! That was the man.” He looked with interest at the pair, then at Sanchia. “Mixed bathing—what?”
She laughed. “Yes—we both got wet to the skin. Percy Charnock took it ages ago—oh, ages! Before I was out, or knew Nevile, or anybody except you. It was ten years ago. I must have been eighteen. It was when I was at Gorston with Grace Mauleverer—trying to save water-lilies from drowning in green scum. He—Mr. Senhouse—came along in his cart, and saw me, and lent me his bed for a raft—and worked it himself. That was the first time I ever saw him—” she ended softly in a sigh: “before anything happened.”
Chevenix listened, nodding at the photograph. “Wish to heaven, my dear, nothing had ever happened. The less that happens to girls the better for them, I believe. Not but whatthischap would have been all right. Ifhehad happened, now! He was as mad as a hatter, but a real good sort. Did I tell you?” He grew suddenly reminiscent. “I saw him a little more than a year ago—with a pretty woman. Had a talk with him—asked him to come up and have a look at you. It was when Nevile went off on this trip. No, no, I liked old Senhouse. He was a nice-minded chap. Not the kind to eat you up—and take everything you've got as if he had a right to it. No. That's Nevile's line, that is. You wouldn't see Nevile lending you his bed, or risking his life after water-lilies.”
Sanchia's eyes were narrow and critical. She peered as if she were trying to find good somewhere in Nevile Ingram. “He'd risk anything to get what he thought were his rights. But not upon a bed for a raft. He'd write to London for the latest thing in coracles. He's very conventional.”
“You have to be,” said Chevenix with sudden energy. He wheeled round upon her as he spoke. “We all have to be. We go by clockwork. You get the striking all wrong if you play tricks.” He resumed the photograph. “By Jove, but that suits you. Child of Nature, what? I suppose you're happiest when you're larking?”
“Mud-larking?” she asked him, laughing and blushing.
“Well, we'll say rampageing; going as you please.”
“Yes.” She owned to it without hesitation. “I can't be happy, I think, unless I can do just what I like everywhere. It was one of the first things Jack Senhouse ever taught me. He was an anarchist, you know—and I suppose I'm one, too.”
“Your gypsy friend?” He jerked his head backwards to the photograph. “By Jove, my dear,” he added, “you must have knocked him sideways—even him—when you carried out his little ideas—as you did.”
She opened her eyes to a stare. She stared, rather ruefully. “Yes,” she said, “I believe I did. I know I did. He was dreadfully unhappy. He and I were never quite the same after that. But I couldn't help myself. It was before me—it had to be done.”
“No, no, no!” cried he vehemently, but checked himself. “Pardon, Sancie. We won't go over all that, but surely you see, now, that it won't do. Now that escapade in the pond, you know. That was all right—with only old Senhouse in the way. You must admit that you were ratherdecolletee, to say the least of it. Now, would you say that you can do those sort of things—go as you please, you know, anywhere?”
“Why not?” Her eyes were straightly at him.
“What! Whether you're seen or not?”
She frowned. “I don't want to know whether I'm seen or not.”
“And mostly you don't care?”
“And sometimes I don't care.”
“Ah,” said Chevenix, “there you are. Your 'sometimes' gives you away.”
She changed the subject. “Do have some tea. It will be quite cold.”
He had been staring again at the photograph—Sanchia's gleaming limbs, the gypsy's intent face shadowed over the water. He now relinquished it with an effort. “Thanks,” he said. “I like it cold.” He sat beside her, and they talked casually, like old, fast friends, of mutual acquaintance. But for him the air was charged; she was on his conscience. Reminiscences paled and talk died down; he found himself staring at the wall.
He resumed the great affair. “Nevile's rather jumpy, don't you think?”
Her serenity was proof. “Is he? Why should he be?”
“Ah, my dear!” cried the poor young man. “Let's say it's the old Devereux.Salmo deverox, eh? Sounds fierce.”
Not a flicker. “Mrs. Devereux? What has she been doing to him?”
“Nothing,” he said; “and that's just it. She won't have anything to say to him.”
Then she went a little too far. A man charged with friendly impulse, charged also with knowledge, must be handled tenderly. You must not be foolhardy. But here was bravado, nothing less. For she arched her brows, and showed her eyes innocently wide. “Oh!” she said, “why? Why won't Mrs. Devereux speak to Nevile?”
“Oh, come, you know.” He looked at her keenly. He didn't wink, but he blinked. Then he crossed the room. “Look here, Sancie. Will you let me talk to you—really—as an old friend?”
She looked up into his face, nodded and smiled. “Of course you may say what you like.”
He sat by her, collecting himself. “Well, then, what I shall say is just this. The whole thing is in your hands—now. You can put it square. There's absolutely nothing in your way—now—well, now that Claire's gone, you know.” He watched her anxiously for a sign, but got none. So still she sat, glooming, watching herself—as on a scene.
“Mind,” he said in a new tone. “You know all about me. I jibbed at first when you broke away. I'll own to that. I couldn't do otherwise. Why, old Senhouse himself went half off his head about it. Anything in the world to get you out of it, I'd have done. Any mortal thing, my dear. But there! There was no holding you—off you went! But when once the thing was started—the extraordinary thing was that I was on your side directly. And so I always have been. Ask Vicky—ask your mother. I've done, in my quiet way, what you would never have asked of me. You must forgive me—I've defended you everywhere. I won't mention names, but I've explained your case, only lately, in a rocky quarter—and I know I've made an impression. I'm not much good at talking, as a rule, but I do believe that I put the thing rather well. You make your own laws—eh? Like Napoleon Buonaparte—eh? And somehow—the way you do it—it's all right, eh, Sancie?”
He got nothing from her. She sat on rigid, with unwinking eyes, staring at herself, as she saw herself on the scene. Chevenix leaned to her.
“And Nevile knows it. He believes it. He would say it anywhere. He's difficult, is Nevile; a wayward beggar. He's been his own master since he was sixteen; asked, and had. It's hard to make him understand that he can't go on. But he can't, the old sweep, when you put in your say. You know his way—he puts his desires in the shape of truisms. He states them—that's all he has to do—they become immutable laws. Very imposing, his desires, put like that. They've imposed upon me; they've imposed uponyouin their day. Well, with a man like that, you know, you can't take him up too short. Go slow, go slow. What was it I heard Clyde saying to you just now? Who's queen of herself is queen of the world—what? Now, that's quite true. One for Clyde. Apply that to old Nevile. Queen of herself! Why, what else are you? And what's Nevile but the blundering world in a man's skin? Well, queen it, queen it—and there's your kingdom under your feet. Marry the old chap, Sancie. You put everything right; you take your proper place. The county! But what are counties to you? You smile—and you may well smile. Let the county go hang; but there's Vicky. She's more than county to you. There's Melusine, there's Philippa, there's Hawise; there's your good old dad, there's your lady mother. You get 'em all. And Nevile's biting his nails for it. And a free man. Come now.”
She had listened, that's certain; she hadn't been displeased. He had seen her eyes grow dreamy, he had marked her rising breast. Rising and falling, rising and falling, like lilies swayed by flowing water. That betokened no storm, nor flood; that meant the stirring of the still deeps, not by violent access, but by slow-moving, slow-gathered, inborn forces. Had he had eloquence, he thought, as he watched her, he had won. But he was anxious. She was such a deep one.
{Illustration: He had eloquence, he thought, as he watched her, he had won. But he was anxious. She was such a deep one.}
When she spoke there sounded to be a tinge of weariness in her voice; she dragged her sentences, as if she foresaw her own acts, and was tired in advance. She seemed almost to be pitying her fate. At first she looked down at her hands in her lap, at her fingers idly interweaving; but midway of her drawn-out soliloquy—for she seemed to be talking to herself—she turned him her eyes, and he plumbed their depths in vain.
“It's very nice of you to be interested in me. You are much more interested than I am—and it's a compliment, a great compliment. I think you are very loyal—if I can call it loyalty—if you'll let me call it that. I like my work here; I'm perfectly happy doing it. It was hard at first. I knew absolutely nothing of housekeeping and managing things when I came here. I had to work—to learn book-keeping and accounts—cooking—building—carpentering—stock-raising—oh, everything. I had to feel that I knew very nearly as much about everything as the people who were to do what I told them. And of course that was quite true; but it wasn't at all easy. It has taken me eight years to get as far as I am now. And I could go on for years more. There's nobody on the place whom I can't manage: they all like me. I'm quite comfortable—if I can be let alone.”
... Speaking so, she believed it. But, thinking it over she was driven to explain herself.
“People seem to think that girls—that women—care for nothing but one thing—being married, I mean. I'm sure that's a mistake. One gets interested, one may get absorbed—and then there's a difficulty. For it's very true, I think, that unless we care for the one thing, and that thing only, we don't care for it at all. At least, that is how I feel about it. I have got lots of interests in life—all these things here—management of things. I don't want Nevile—or to be married. I don't want anything of the sort; I can't be bothered. I cared once—frightfully; but now I don't care. All that was long ago; at the beginning—eight years ago. Now it's done with, I only want to be let alone—to do my work here. It doesn't seem to me much to ask; but—” ...
It was then that she looked at him, and was beyond the power of his sounding. She grew vehement, full of still, passionless rage. She was like a goddess pronouncing a decree; she was final.
“I don't want to marry Nevile. It bores me. And he doesn't want me, really. He thinks he does, because he thinks that he can't have me any other way. But he would be miserable, and so should I. It seems to me impossible. You can't put life into dead things. When he came back here the other day he had been away a year: a year and ten days. He had written to me twice—”
Chevenix interrupted. “Excuse me,” he said. “How many times had you written to him?” He had guessed at pique; but he was wrong.
She replied slowly. “I forwarded his letters. I hadn't written at all.” Her simplicity! Chevenix allowed her to go on.
“The thing—all that it began with—was over. I felt that. I showed him that the first evening he was here. He has never spoken to me again—of that sort of thing, and I don't think he ever will. He doesn't understand being refused anything. I suppose he never has been before in his life.”
“Weren't you, perhaps, a little bit short?” he hazarded; and she considered the possibility.
“No, I don't think so. I wasn't more abrupt than he was—after a year.” She paused. “He threw out her death—Mrs. Ingram's death—” she forced herself to the name—“quite casually, as if he had been saying, 'By-the-by, the Rector's coming to dine.' If he had wanted me, do you think he would have put it like that?”
“Nevile,” said Chevenix, “would put anything—like anything. He's that sort, you know. He'd take for granted that you understood lots of things which he couldn't express. But I will say this for Nevile. He's not petty. He's fairly large-minded. For instance, I'll bet you what you like he didn't mind your not writing to him—or reproach you with it.”
She opened her eyes. “Of course he didn't. He was perfectly happy. He told me he had been idiotically happy. He knew I was here, because I forwarded his letters—and that was all he cared about. I was here for—when he chose. I assure you he didn't want me at all until I showed him that he couldn't have me.”
“But he did, you know,” said Chevenix; “he does. He was sure of you all through, from the beginning, as you say. That's why he didn't write or expect letters from you. He nattered himself that he was secure. Poor old Nevile!” He felt sorry now for Ingram. She was really adamantine.
She arose, with matches in her hand, knelt before the fire and kindled it. She blew into it with her mouth, and watched the climbing flames. “I don't think you need pity Nevile, really,” she said. “He will always be happy. But I am going to be made unhappy.” She proclaimed her fate as a fact in which she had no concern at all. Chevenix rose and paced the room.
“Well, you know—I must be allowed to say—your happiness is so entirely in your own hands. It's difficult—I've no right to suggest—to interfere in any way. I'm nothing at all, of course—”
“You are my friend, I hope,” she said, watching the young fire—still on her knees before it, worshipping it, as it seemed. Chevenix expanded his chest.
“You make me very proud. I thank you for that. Yes, I am your friend. That's why I risk your friendship by asking you something. You won't answer me unless you choose, of course. But—come now, Sancie, is there, might there be—somebody else?”
She looked round at him from where she knelt. Her hands were opened to the fire; her face was warmed by its glow; it was the pure face of a seraph. “No. There's nobody at all—now.”
He was again standing before the little photograph of the nymph thigh-deep in water. That seemed to attract him; but he heard her “now,” and started. “I take your word for it, absolutely. But, seeing what you felt for Nevile in the beginning, I should have thought—in any ordinary case—there must have been a tender spot—unless, of course, you had changed your mind—for reasons—”
She got up from her knees, and stood, leaning by the mantelpiece. Her low voice stirred him strangely.
“There are reasons. The spot, as you call it, is so tender that it's raw.”
“Good Lord,” said Chevenix. “What do you mean?”
She was full of her reasons, evidently. Rumours of them, so to say, drove over her eyes, showed cloudily and angrily there. Her beautiful mouth looked cruel—as if she saw death and took joy in it. “I think he is horrible,” she said. “I think he is like a beast. He doesn't love me at all until he comes here—and then he expects me—Oh, don't ask me to talk about it.” She stopped her tongue, but not her thought. That thronged the gates of her lips. She hesitated, fighting the entry; but the words came, shocked and dreadful. “He wants me, to ravage me—like a beast.”
Chevenix began to stammer. “Oh, I say, you mustn't—Oh, don't talk like that—”
The door opened, and Ingram came in.
He looked from one to the other, sharply. “Hulloa,” he said. “What are you two about in here?”
Sanchia looked at the fire, and put her foot close to it, to be warmed. “Tea-party,” said Chevenix. “That's it, Nevile.” He nodded sagely at his host, and saw his brow clear. Ingram shut the door and came into the room, to a chair. “That's all right,” he said. “I hope it was a livelier one than mine. That old Devereux was on her high-stepper. I'm sick of being trampled. I thought, though, that you had been having words. You looked like it.”
Sanchia said, smiling in her queer way, “Oh, dear no. Mr. Chevenix is much too kind for that. He's been talking very nicely to me. He's been charming.”
“Oh, come, Sancie—” cried the brisk young man, quite recovered.
Ingram, in a stare, said, “Yes, Sancie, you may trust him. He's a friend of ours.”
“I do trust him,” she said.
Chevenix said, “I shall go out on that. I declare my innings. Good-bye, you two. I'll go and pacify the Devereux.” He hoped against hope that he might have warmed her.
Ingram, when they were alone, threw himself back in his chair, crossed one leg, and clasped the thin ankle of it. He had finely-made, narrow feet, and was proud of his ankles. Sanchia was now again kneeling before the fire.
“Quite right to have a fire,” he said. “It's falling in cold. There'll be a frost. What was Chevenix saying about me?”
She had been prepared. “Nothing but good. He's your friend, as you said.”
“I said 'our friend,' my dear.”
She looked at him. “Yes, certainly. He's my friend, too.”
“I hope he'll prove so. Upon my soul, I do.” He remained silent for a time. Then he leaned forward suddenly, and held out his arms.
“Oh, Sancie,” he said, his voice trembling. “Love me.”
She looked at him with wide, searching, earnest eyes. They seemed to search, not him, but her own soul. They explored the void, seeking for a sign, a vestige, a wreck; but found nothing.
“I can't,” she said. Her voice was frayed. “The thing is quite dead.”
Ingram flushed deeply, but sat on, biting his lip, frowning, staring at the young, mounting fire, which she, stooping over it, cherished with her breath and quick hands.
Ingram, at supper in his private room, had his elbows on the table, and spoke between his fists to Chevenix, let into these mysteries for the first time.
“I ought not to complain, you'll say, and in my heart of hearts I don't, because I'm a reasonable man, and know that you don't make a row about sunstroke or lightning-shocks. We call 'em the Act of God, and rule 'em out in insurance offices. No, no, I see what I've let myself in for. I've been away too much; she's got sick of it. I shall have to work at it—to bring her round. By God, and she's worth it. She's a wonder.”
“Pity,” said Chevenix, “you've only just found it out.”
Ingram frowned, and waxing in rage, stared at his friend as if he had never known him. “You don't know what you're talking about. Why, she adored me. I was never more in love with a woman in my life than I was with Sancie.”
Chevenix tilted back his chair. “Oh, you had it pretty badly—at the time. The trouble with you is that you are such a chap for accepting things. You're like a hall-porter in a Swiss hotel. You take things for granted. Do nothing—hold out your hand—and get your perks. Perks! Why, they ain't perks at all. They're bounty—what you get from a girl like Sancie.”
All this Ingram took as his due—as due, that is, to a man of passion and reasonable desires. He fell into a reverie. “Yes, yes, I know. She was devilish fond of me.”
Chevenix gritted his teeth, but Ingram went on. “It was a false position, I know, and I never ought to have looked at her twice. But she was awfully queer or awfully deep—one never knew which. Why, when we got thick together—always meeting out, always reading poetry and philosophy—Shelley, Dante, Keats (I forget half their names now)—I take my oath I hadn't a suspicion that she was getting to like me, in that sort of way, as we call it. She made all the difference in the world to me, I can tell you. You know what I was doing after Claire bolted with that swine: killing time and killing myself—that's what I was doing. It was like going into church out of the sun to hear her at her poetry, and see her. Oh, a lovely girl she was!”
“She's a lovelier woman than you and I are fit to look at,” said Chevenix, “if you ask me.”
“Damn you, I know all about that. D'you think I want telling, now that I can't get her? Well, then I found out what was the matter with me—and then we cleared the air.”
“Who had stuffed it up to begin with?” Chevenix murmured; but Ingram ignored him.
“I told her the whole thing—”
“After she had found it out!” cried Chevenix with energy. “Let's have cards on the table. I told Vicky all about it at a dance—and Vicky told her.”
“I told her,” Ingram said, “that I was in love with her, and promised to behave—and so I should have, only—”
“Only you didn't, old chap.”
“She loved me—there was no stopping it then. The thing was done. Mind you, her people knew it all, too.”
“The mother always was a fool,” Chevenix agreed. “And she liked you.”
“I know she did. I took care of that.”
“Not a bit of it, my boy,” the other objected. “That's just what you didn't do. She liked you because she thought you didn't care a curse whether she liked you or not.”
Ingram raised his eyebrows at suchnaivete. “That's what I mean, of course. So it went on all that summer. We used to shake when we met each other, and be speechless. By heavens, what a time that was! Do you remember the tea-party?”
Chevenix blinked. “I wasn't there; but I remember what happened afterwards. The poor child—as white as a sheet—and every hand lifted against her. By God, Nevile, what girls—mere chits—will go through!”
“I know,” said Ingram dreamily. “Isn't it awful?” Chevenix looked at him. He was quite serious. What can you do with such a man as this?
“They left us alone in the room, you know,” Ingram continued. “Vicky went out last and left us in there—and the whole place was charged with electricity. You could feel it, smell it, hear it crackling all about. My heart going like a drum; my ears buzzing with it all. I hadn't been able to speak when they spoke to me. I don't know what the devil they must have thought of me—and I didn't care a damn. And over across the tea-table, on a low chair—there she sat—my girl! Her eyes downcast, her mouth adroop.” He shut his eyes for a moment. “And Vicky went out, and left us there!”
“You had it badly, old chap,” Chevenix said. “Go slow. Take your time. Or chuck it, if you'd rather.”
Ingram appeared not to hear him; he was staring at the tablecloth, at his two hands locked in front of him, and at his knuckles white under the strain.
“I don't know how long I stood gaping at the window, I don't indeed. I could feel her sitting shaking in her chair; but neither of us said anything. Somebody came to take the tea out—and then I turned and looked at her; and she turned and looked at me. Something drew me—set me on the move. It was all over with me then. I went straight across the room to her; I stood above her, I stooped and took her hands. I don't know what I said: she looked at me all the time in a strange, clear way. She got up—I was beside her, and took her. Not a word said. I had her lips. Honey of flowers! Her soul came forth from them: new wine. Oh, God! I thought so, anyhow. And so did she. Chevenix, she meant giving.”
Chevenix nodded shortly. He believed that. Ingram had covered his eyes.
He drained a glass before he went on with his account. “I suppose you know the rest as well as I do. I never had the details out of her. One of them—that Mrs. King—Philippa, it was—came slam into the room; and what was there to do? I stuck it as long as I could—until I was practically kicked out. The mother came back and turned me out. I had to leave her to brave them all—and I never saw her again until I found out where she was in London.”
“Don't you trouble to tell me all that part,” said Chevenix frowning at him. “I know more about that than you do. I was in it. My head, how they treated her! What I never did understand, you know, was how you found out where she was.”
Ingram smiled. His memories now amused him. He looked straight at his friend. “I'll tell you that. It was rather neat. You remember that chap Senhouse—loafing kind of artist? Anarchist, gypsy-looking chap, who wore no hat?”
Chevenix opened his eyes. “By George, I do!”
Ingram nodded. “She thought no end of him. He took her affair with me very much to heart.”
“As well he might,” said Chevenix. “I fancy that you were the only person who took it easy.”
“Sancie used to tell him everything,” Ingram went on, “and she told him all the trouble. She'd been turned adrift with fifty pounds to her name.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” Chevenix put in. “They locked her up with an aunt, and she bolted.”
“Same thing,” said Ingram. “Well, this chap Senhouse comes here one day in a mighty hurry—turns up at breakfast, and makes a row. Wants me to swear I'll divorce and marry Sancie. Says he thinks I'm a blackguard and all that, but that, on the whole, I'd better marry her. Refuses to give me her address, all the same. We had a row, I remember, because he began to tell me what he thought about her. The man was a bore, you know.”
Chevenix screwed up one leg. “All men are, if they're sweet on your sweetheart, I suppose. He was worth fifty of you, all the same—but go on.”
Ingram laughed. “I set my wits against his,” he said, “and found out that he'd come straight from seeing her—in London. That was good enough for me. I got rid of Master Senhouse, and went off to town. He had no promises out ofme, you may believe.”
Chevenix felt very sick, and looked it. “The less you say about your promises, my good chap, the better I'll take it.” But Ingram by now had got back to his holier reminiscences:—
“I hunted for her high and low for three months—advertised, turned on detectives, I had even dared her friends' eyes and their cold shoulders—couldn't hear anything ... I was walking in hell for three months....
“Then, one day, I met her—in Chancery Lane. Of all squalid places on earth—there....”
“I'd been to my lawyer's, in Lincoln's Inn. I'd settled money on her—in case anything happened to me while I was abroad. I was going to travel, because I'd given it up. And then I met her. Chancery Lane!
“I was passing some school or another—Commercial Academy—book-keeping, shorthand, typewriting—that sort of place; a lot of ogling, giggling girls, and boys after 'em, came tumbling down the steps—all sun-bonnets and fluffy hair; and down the steps she came, too—Sanchia came—like a princess. She was in white, my dear man—as fresh and dainty as a rose, I remember. Daisies round a broad-brimmed straw: some books under her arm. The sun was on her, lit the gold in her hair. She looked neither right nor left, spoke to no one, had no one with her, or after her. She was never showy. You had to know her well to see how lovely she was. She never showed off well, and was always silent in company. Oh, but what a girl!
“When she saw me she flushed all over, and stood. She stood on the last step, and looked at me. Looked at me straight, as if she waited. I went directly to her, and took her hand. She let me. I couldn't speak sense. I said, 'You!' and she said, 'I knew I should see you like this.' It sounded all right. I never questioned it.” ... He stared, then broke out. “Good God, Bill! To think of her then—and to see her now! She won't look at me! I don't exist.” He plunged his face between his hands, and rocked himself about. Chevenix watched him without a word. Suddenly he lifted his pinched face, and complained bitterly.
“I can't understand it—I don't know what's changed her. Why, it's awful to make a chap suffer like this!” He stared about him. “Why, Bill,” he said, hushing down his voice, “is she going to drop me, d'you think—let me go to the devil?”
Chevenix rose and stood with his back to the fire. “I'll trouble you not to whine, Nevile; I've got something to say to all this tale of yours. I've got to ask you a thing or two. When you found her, now; and when you knew all that she'd gone through—a child like that! You brought her up here—hey?”
Without shifting his head to face his cross-examination, Ingram answered between his hands—“No, I didn't. She wouldn't budge from her school till she'd finished her course. I courted her for a month. It took me all that to make her listen to reason.”
“Reason!” Chevenix rated him. “You call it reason!”
“It was whatshecalled it—not I,” said Ingram from between his fists. Then he looked up. “She refused the idea of going abroad. Said she wasn't at all afraid of people talking. Said she wanted to work for me. Must be doing something, she said. I tell you, it was her idea from the beginning. And I do say, myself, that it was reasonable.” He searched for agreement in his friend's face, but got none. “It suited better,” he said presently, with indifference. “It suited better—in every way. I had to be here.”
“Why had you to be here, man?” Chevenix raised his voice. “What the devil did it matter to you, having her, where you were?”
“It mattered a lot. I like this place. It's mine. I've got duties up here. I'm a magistrate and all that.”
Chevenix was now very hot. “Magistrate be damned. Do you mean to tell me that you profess to love a woman, and turn her into a servant because you want to try poachers? And you talk about the sun in her hair! And then—upon my soul, Ingram, you sicken me.”
“You fool,” said Ingram. “I tell you it was her own idea. She loves the place. She loves it a lot more than she does me. It's been a continual joy to her. Why, where would she have been while I was in India—all that year—if she hadn't had all this in her hands? You don't know what you're talking about.”
His voice rang down his scorn. Chevenix began to stammer.
“You're hopeless, Nevile, utterly hopeless. Every word you say gives up your case. What's it to do with you whether she likes it or not? I'm not talking of her, but of you. You silly ass, don't you see where you are? You fall in love with a woman and make her your head housemaid. Then you say, Oh, but she likes it. It's not what she likes we're talking about; it's what you can bring yourself to do with her. Wait a bit now. There's more to it. You play about here, there, and all over the shop. Off you go for three months at a time, sky-larking, shooting antelope, pigeon-shooting, polo, and whatever. She sits here and minds the gardeners—she whom you saw with the sun in her hair! Year in, year out it goes on. Now here you are back from India. Good. You leave her for a year, and write to her twice—then you say, Why, where would she have been if she hadn't had something to do? The sun in her hair, hey? Love, my good chap! You don't know how to spell the word. You ought not to touch her shoe-string. You're not fit. By Gad, sir, and now I remember something! And it's the truth, it's the bitter, naked, grinning truth.” He did remember something. He saw her curled-back lip—he saw her fierce resentful eyes. He heard her say it: “I think he is like a beast. He wants to ravage me—like a beast.” “You've been judged, Nevile,” he said. “You've done for yourself. And now I'll go to bed.”
Ingram's face was very cloudy. He looked for a moment like quarrelling. “Do you mean to leave me like this?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Chevenix, “I do. I don't want to stop and hear you protest that you intend to marry her. Marry her! Why, man, if you'd meant to marry her, you'd have posted home express from Marseilles the moment you heard that you could do it. But no! You've got her there—in cap and apron—she'll keep. You know she's here—you have your fling. And you stop three days in Paris, and drop it to her casually, when you please, that you're a free man. Yes, by George, I do mean to leave you like this. You're best alone, by George. Good-night to you.”
He went smartly away; but he had worked himself into a shaking fit, could not have slept to save his life. A cigar at the open window was inevitable.
He leaned far into the night. It was densely dark, and had been raining. Soft scud drifted over his face; clouds in loose solution drenched the earth. He smoked fiercely, inhaling great draughts and driving them out into the fog. Being no thinker, his sensations took no body, but he broke out now and again with pishes and pshaws, or scornfully—“Old Nevile—hungry devil, what? Stalking about like a beast. Oh, she was right, she was right. Pish! And there's an end of it.”
He was aware of softly moving feet below—a measured tread. He listened and heard them beyond dispute. “Nevile!” he said, “like a beast, padding about his place.” He listened on, grimly amused. Let him pad and rage.
But he was to be startled. A voice hailed him, not Ingram's. “Beg your pardon, sir.”
“Hulloa!” he cried. “Who are you, my man?”
“Glyde, sir. Is all well?”
“What do you mean, Glyde? What are you doing?”
“I was passing, sir, to my houses. I heard voices, and I wondered—”
“Oh!” he laughed. “You thought there was a scrap, did you? It's all right, Glyde. I and the master were having a talk. Nothing for you to worry about. I shared his lonely meal. Don't you be disturbed.”
“No, no, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Chevenix called to him when he was at some distance. “I say, Glyde.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You can go to bed. It's all right.”
“Thank you, sir. Good-night.”
He chuckled as he undressed. “Rum fish, Glyde. Watch and ward, what? Watching his shield. Bless her, she's got friends, then.” He considered for a while, flicking the glowing end of his cigar. “That chap—Senhouse—Jack Senhouse. I wonder what's become of him.”