In the leisure hours and the autumn sunshine of Meriton—an atmosphere remote from courts, whether of law or of royalty, and inimical to ambition—Billy was in danger of forgetting theparamount claims of his career and of remembering only the remarkable prettiness of Miss Flower. He was once more "on the brink"; the metaphor of a plunge found a place in his thoughts as well as in Isobel Vintry's; some metaphors are very maids-of-all-work. He was deplorably perturbed. Now that the great campaign was over he abandoned himself to the great question. He even went up to London to talk it over with Gilly, entertaining his brother to lunch—by no means a casual or haphazard hospitality, for Gilly's meals were serious business—in order to obtain his most inspired counsel. But Gilly had been abominably, nay, cruelly disappointing.
"I shouldn't waste any more time thinking about that, old chap," said Gilly, delicately dissecting a young partridge.
"You're not going out of your way to be flattering. It appears to me at least to be a matter of some importance whom I marry. I thought perhaps my brother might take that view too."
"Oh, I do, old chap. I know it's devilish important to you. All I mean is that in this particular case you needn't go about weighing the question. Ask the Nun right off."
"You really advise it?" Billy demanded, wrinkling his brow in judicial gravity, but inwardly rather delighted.
"I do," Gilly rejoined. "Ask her right off—get it off your mind! It doesn't matter a hang, because she's sure to refuse you." He smiled at his brother across the table—a table spread by that brother's bounty—in a fat and comfortable fashion.
Billy preserved his temper with some difficulty. "Purely for the sake of argument, assume that I am a person whom she might possibly accept."
"Can't. There are limits to hypothesis, beyond which discussion is unprofitable. I merely ask you to note how much time and worry you'll be saved if you adopt my suggestion."
"You'll look a particular fool if I do—and she says yes."
"Are you quite sure they brought the claret you ordered, Billy?—What's that you said?"
"I'm sure it's the claret, and I'm sure you're an idiot!" Billy crossly retorted.
His journey to London, to say nothing of a decidedly expensive lunch, brought poor Billy no comfort and no enlightenment, since he refused his brother's plan without hesitation. His problem became no less harassing when brought into contact with Mrs. Belfield's problem at Halton. She also discussed it at lunch, Harry being an absentee, and Andy Hayes the only other guest. She had forgotten by now that a similar question had once arisen about Andy himself; his present positionwould have made the memory seem ridiculous; it had become indisputably equal to dinner at Halton, even in Mrs. Belfield's most conservative eyes.
"I have written the note you wished me to, my dear," she remarked to her husband. "To Miss Flower, you know, for Wednesday night. And I apologized for my informality in not having called, and said that I hoped Miss—Miss—well, the friend, you know, would come too."
"Thank you, my dear, thank you." Belfield sounded really grateful; the struggle had, in fact, been rather more severe than he had anticipated.
"It's not that I'm a snob," the lady went on, now addressing herself to Billy Foot, "or prejudiced, or in any way illiberal. Nobody could say that of me. But it's just that I doubt how far it's wise to attempt to mix different sections of society. I mean whether there's not a certain danger in it. You see what I mean, Mr. Foot?"
Belfield winked covertly at Andy; both had some suspicion of Billy's feelings, and were maliciously enjoying the situation.
"Oh yes, Mrs. Belfield, I—er—see what you mean, of course. In ordinary cases there might be—yes—a sort of—well, a sort of danger to—to—well, to something we all value, Mrs. Belfield. But in this case I don't think—"
"So Mr. Belfield says. But then he's always so adventurous."
Belfield could not repress a snigger; Andy made an unusually prolonged use of his napkin; Billy was rather red in the face. Mrs. Belfield gazed at Billy, not at all understanding his feelings, but thinking that he was looking very warm.
"Well, Harry's engaged!" she added with a sigh of thanksgiving. Billy grew redder still; the other two welcomed an opportunity for open laughter.
"They may laugh, Mr. Foot, but I'm sure your mother would feel as I do."
A bereavement several years old saved Billy from the suggested complication, but he glared fiercely across the table at Andy, who assumed, with difficulty, an apologetic gravity.
"All my wife's fears will vanish as soon as she knows the lady," said Belfield, also anxious to make his peace with Billy.
"I always yield to Mr. Belfield, but you can't deny that it's an experiment, Mr. Foot." She rose from the table, having defined the position with her usual serene and gentle self-satisfaction.
Billy rose too, announcing that he would finish his cigar in the garden. His face was still red, and he was not well pleased with his host and Andy. Why will people make our own most reasonablethoughts ridiculous by their silly way of putting them? And why will other stupid people laugh at them when so presented? These reflections accompanied poor Billy as he walked and smoked.
Belfield smiled. "More sentimental complications! I hope Billy Foot keeps his face better than that when he's in court. Do you think he'll rush on his fate? And what will it be?"
"Oh, I don't know, sir," Andy answered. "I really haven't thought about it. I don't think she cares for him in that sort of way, though they're awfully good friends."
"You seem to manage to keep heart-whole, Andy?"
"Oh, I've no time to do anything else," he laughed.
"Take care; Cupid resents defiance. I've a notion you stand very well with the lady in question yourself."
"I? Oh, the idea's never entered my head."
"I don't say it's entered hers. The pretty rogue told me she never fell in love, and made me wish I was thirty years younger, and free to test her. But she's very fond of you, Andy."
"I think what she told you about herself is true. She said something like it to me too. But I'm glad you think she likes me. I like her immensely.Outside this house, she's my best friend, I think, not counting old Jack Rock, of course."
"I believe Vivien would dispute the title with her. She thinks the world of you."
"I say, Mr. Belfield, you'll turn my head. Seriously, I should be awfully happy to think that true. There's nobody—well, nobody in the world I'd rather be liked by."
"Yes, I think I know that," said Belfield. "And I'm glad to think she's got such a friend, if she ever needs one."
A silence followed. Belfield was thinking of Vivien, thinking that she would have been in safer hands with Andy than with his son Harry; glad, as he had said, to know that she would have such a friend left to her after his own precarious lease of life was done. Andy was thinking too, but not of Vivien, not of sentimental complications—not even of Harry's. Yet the thought which he was pursuing in his mind was not altogether out of relation to Harry, though the relation was one that he did not consciously trace.
"Back to work next week, sir!" he said. "Gilly's clamouring for me. I've had a splendid holiday."
"You've put in some very good work in your holiday. Your speeches are thought good."
"I somehow feel that I'm on my own legsnow," said Andy slowly. "I hope I've not grown bumptious, but I'm not afraid now to think for myself and to say what I think. I often find people agree with me more or less."
"Perhaps you persuade them," Belfield suggested; he was listening with interest, for he had watched from outside the growth of Andy's mind, and liked to hear Andy's own account of it.
"Well, I never set out to do that. I just give them the facts, and what the facts seem to me to point to. If they've got facts pointing the other way, I like to listen. Of course lots of questions are very difficult, but by going at it like that, and taking time, and not being afraid to chuck up your first opinion, you can get forward—or so it seems to me at least."
"Chucking up first opinions is hard work, both about things and about people."
"Yes, but it's the way a man's mind grows, isn't it?" He spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "Unless you can do that, you're not really your own mental master, any more than you're your own physical master if you can't break off a bad habit."
"You've got to be a bit ruthless with yourself in both cases, and with the opinions, and—with the people."
"You've got to see," said Andy. "You must see—that's it. You mustn't shut your eyes, orturn your head away, or let anybody else look for you."
"You've come into your kingdom," said Belfield with a nod.
"Perhaps I may claim to have got my eyes open, to be grown up."
He was grown up; he stood on his own legs; he sat no more at Harry's feet and leant no more on Harry's arm. Harry came into his life there, as he had in so many ways. Harry's weakness had thrown him back on his own strength, and forced him to rely on it. Relying on it in life, he had found it trustworthy, and now did not fear to rely on it in thought also. His chosen master and leader had forfeited his allegiance, though never his love. He would choose no other; he would think for himself. Looking at his capacious head, at his calm broad brow, and hearing him slowly hammer out his mental creed, Belfield fancied that his thinking might carry him far. The kingdom he had come into might prove a spacious realm.
So far as she could and dared, Isobel Vintry withdrew herself from the company of Harry Belfield. She relaxed her supervision of the lovers when they were together; she tried to avoid any risk of being alone with Harry. She knew that Wellgood was watching her, and was determined to give no new handle to his suspicion. Her own feelings agreed in dictating her line of action. In ordinary intercourse she was sure of herself; she was not anxious to seek extraordinary temptation. She had more resolution than Harry, but not the same power of self-delusion, not the same faculty of imagining that an enemy was finally conquered because he had been once defeated or defied. She was careful not to expose herself to danger, either from herself or from Wellgood. Harry had decided that all chance of danger was over; he laughed at it now, almost literally laughed. Yet while he derided the notion ofperil, he liked the flavour of memory. He kept turning the thing over in a mood nicely compounded of remorse and self-esteem; of penitence for the folly, and self-congratulation over the end that had been put to it; of wonder at his aberration, and excuse of it in view of Isobel's attractions. Gone as it all was in fact, it was not banished from retrospect.
Wellgood grew easier in his mind. He had marked some florins—opportunities for private meetings rather clumsily offered; they had not been taken. His suspicions of the past remained, but he thought that he had effectually frightened Isobel. He had good hopes for his own scheme again. If she did not come round before the wedding—now only a fortnight off—he believed that she would afterwards. Harry finally out of reach, his turn would come. He continued his smoothness, and did not relax his vigilance; but, as the days passed by, his hopes rose to confidence again.
The dinner-party at Halton in the Nun's honour went off with great success; she comported herself with such decorum and ease that Mrs. Belfield felt her problem solved, while Billy Foot found his even more pressing. Vivien was the only representative of Nutley. Wellgood had gone to the county town to attend a meeting ofthe County Council; the trains ran awkwardly, and, unless the business proved very brief, he would have to dine at the hotel, and would not reach home till late at night. Isobel had excused herself, pursuant to her policy of seeing as little as possible of Harry. But the party was reinforced by Gilly Foot, who had come down for a couple of days' rest, and was staying at the Lion—the great publishing house being left to take care of itself for this short space.
The party was pleasant—Belfield flirting with the Nun, Gilly discoursing in company with Mrs. Belfield, who thought him a most intelligent young man (as he was), Harry and Billy both in high spirits and full of sallies, for which Vivien and Andy, both ever choosing the modestrôle, made an applauding audience. Yet for most of the company dinner was but a prelude to the real business of the evening. The Nun had no opinion of evenings which ended at ten-thirty. For this reason, and in order to welcome Gilly and, if possible, please his palate, she had organized a supper at the Lion, and exhorted Mr. Dove, and Chinks, and the cook—in a word, everybody concerned—to a great effort. One thing only marred the anticipations of this feast; Vivien had failed to win leave to attend it.
"What do you want with supper after a gooddinner?" asked Wellgood brusquely. "Come home and go to bed, like a sensible girl."
So Harry was to take Vivien home, and come back to supper with all reasonable speed. The Nun pressed Mr. Belfield to join her party after his own was over, but gained nothing thereby, save a disquisition on the pleasures appropriate to youth and age respectively. "Among the latter I rank going early to bed very high."
"Going to bed early is a low calculating sort of thing to do," said Harry. "It always means that you intend to try to take advantage of somebody else the next morning."
"In the hope that he'll have been up late," said Billy.
"And eaten too much," added Gilly sadly.
"Or even drunk too much?" suggested Belfield.
"Anyhow, being sent to bed is horrid," lamented unhappy Vivien.
"You've a life of suppers before you, if you choose," Billy assured her consolingly.
"When I was a girl, we always had supper," said Mrs. Belfield.
"Quite right, Mrs. Belfield," said Gilly, in high approval.
"Instead of late dinner, I mean, Mr. Foot."
Gilly could do no more than look at her, finding no adequate comment.
"Supper should be a mere flirtation with one's food," said Billy.
"A post-matrimonial flirtation?" asked Belfield. "Because dinner must be wedlock! We come back to its demoralizing character."
"Having established that it's wrong, we've given it the final charm, and we'll go and do it," laughed Billy. Mrs. Belfield had already looked once at the clock.
Amid much merriment Vivien and Harry were put into the Nutley brougham, and the rest started to walk to the Lion, no more than half a mile from the gates of Halton. Belfield turned back into the house, smiling and shaking his head. The old, old moralizing was upon him again, in its hoary antiquity, its eternal power of striking the mind afresh. How good it all is—and how short! Elderly he said good-night to his elderly wife, and in elderly fashion packed himself off to bed. He was "sent" there under a sanction stronger, more ruthless, less to be evaded, than that which poor Vivien reluctantly obeyed. He chid himself; nobody but a poet has a right to abandon his mind to universal inevitable regrets, since only a poet's hand can fashion a fresh garland for the tomb of youth.
Half Harry's charm lay in—perhaps half his dangers sprang from—an instinctive adaptability; hewas seldom out of tune with his company. With the bold he was bold; towards the timid he displayed a chivalrous reserve. This latter had always been his bearing towards Vivien, even in the early days of impulsive single-hearted devotion. It did not desert him even to-night, although there was a stirring in his blood, roused perhaps by the mimic reproduction of old-time gaieties with which the Nun proposed to enliven Meriton—a spirit of riot and revolt, of risk and adventure in the realm of feeling. He had little prospect of satisfying that impulse, but he might find some solace in merry revelry with his friends. Somehow, when more closely considered, the revelry did not satisfy. Good-fellowship was not what his mood was asking; for him at least the entertainment at the Lion offered no more, whatever tinge of romance might adorn it for Billy Foot.
But he talked gaily to Vivien as they drove to Nutley—of the trip they were to make, of the house they were to hire for the winter and the ensuing season (he would in all likelihood be in Parliament by then), of their future life together. There was no woman save Vivien in his mind, neither Isobel nor another. He had no doubts of his recovered loyalty; but he was in some danger of recognizing it ruefully, as obligation and necessity, rather than as satisfaction or even as achievement.
Vivien had grown knowing about him. She knew when she, or something, or things in general, did not satisfy his mood. "I'm glad you're going to have a merry evening to-night," she said. "And I'm almost glad I'm sent to bed! It'll do you good to forget all about me for a few hours."
"You think I shall?" he protested gallantly.
"Oh yes!" she answered, laughing. "But I shall expect you to be all the more glad to see me again to-morrow."
He laughed rather absently. "I expect those fellows will rather wake up the old Lion."
They had passed through Nutley gates and were in the drive. Harry was next to the water, and turned his head to look at it. Suddenly he gave the slightest start, then looked quickly round at his companion. She was leaning back, she had not looked out of the window. Harry frowned and smiled.
When they stopped at the door, the coachman said, "Beg pardon, sir, but I've only just time to take you back, and then go on to the station to meet Mr. Wellgood. He didn't come by the eight-o'clock, so I must meet the eleven-thirty."
For one moment Harry considered. "All right. I'll walk."
"Very good, sir. I'll start directly and take the mare down quietly." The station lay on the otherside of Meriton, two miles and a half from Nutley. The man drove off.
"Oh, Harry, you might as well have driven, because I daren't ask you in! Father's not back, and Isobel is sure to have gone to bed." The rules were still strict at Nutley.
For a moment again Harry seemed to consider. "I thought a walk would do me good. I may even be able to eat some supper!" he said with a laugh. "I shall get you into trouble if I come in, shall I? Then I won't. Good-night."
"Father won't be here for an hour, nearly—but he might ask."
"And you're incorrigibly truthful!"
"Am I? Anyhow I rather think you want to go back to supper."
She would have yielded him admission—risking her father's questions and perhaps her own answer to them—if he had pressed. Harry did not press; in his refraining she saw renewed evidence of his chivalry. She gave him her cheek to kiss; he kissed it lightly, saying, "Till to-morrow—what there's left of me after a night of dissipation!"
She opened the door with her key, waved a last good-night to him, and disappeared into the dimly lighted hall.
She was gone; the carriage was gone; Wellgoodwould not come for nearly an hour. Harry had not told what he had seen in the drive, nor disputed Vivien's assurance that Isobel Vintry would have gone to bed. Chance had put a marked florin on the mantelpiece for Wellgood; what were the chances of its being stolen, and of the theft being traced?
To have moods is to be exposed to chances. Many moods come and go harmlessly—free, at least, from external consequences. Sometimes opportunity comes pat on the mood, and the mood is swift to lay all the blame on opportunity.
"Well, it's not my fault this time," thought Harry. "And if I meet her, I can hardly walk by without saying good-night."
The little adventure, with its sentimental background, had just the flavour that his spirit had been asking, just what the evening lacked. A brief scene of reserved feeling, more hinted than said, a becoming word of sorrow, and so farewell! No harm in that, and, under the circumstances, less from Harry would be hardly decent.
Isobel did not seem minded even for so much. She came up to him with a quick resolute step. She wore a low-cut black gown, and a black lace scarf twisted round her neck. She bent her head slightly, saying, "Good-night, Mr. Harry."
He stepped up to her, holding out his hand, but she made no motion to take it.
"I've no key—I'll go in by the back door. It's sure to be open, because Fellowes is up, waiting for Mr. Wellgood."
"He won't be here for ever so long. Won't you give me just three minutes?"
The lamp over the hall door showed him her face; it was pale and tense, her lips were parted.
"I think I'd sooner go in at once."
"I want you to know that I didn't send that answer lightly. It—it wasn't easy to obey you."
"Please don't let us say a single word more about it. If you have any feeling, any consideration for me, you'll let me go at once."
The moment was a bad one for her too. She had spent an evening alone with bitter thoughts; she had strolled out in a miserable restlessness. Seeing the carriage pass, feeling sure that Harry was in it, she had first thought that she would hide herself till he had gone, then decided to try to reach the house before he had parted from Vivien. Her wavering landed her there at the one wrong minute.
Harry glanced up at the house; every window was dark. Vivien's room looked over the lake, the servants' quarters to the back. There was danger, of course; somebody might come; butnobody was there to see now. The danger was enough to incite, not enough to deter. And what he had to say was very short.
"I only want to tell you how deeply sorry I am, and to ask you to forgive me."
"That's soon said—and soon answered. I forgive you, if I have anything to forgive."
Her voice was very low, it broke and trembled on the last words of the sentence.
"I had lost the right to love you, and I hadn't the courage to regain my freedom, with all that meant to—to poor Vivien and—others. But at least I was sincere. I didn't pretend—"
"Please, please!" Her tones sank to a whisper; he strained forward to catch it. "Have some mercy on me, Harry!"
The old exultation and the old recklessness seized on him. He suffered a very intoxication of the senses. Her strength made weakness, her stateliness turned to trembling for his sake—the spectacle swept away his good resolves as the wind blows the loose petals from a fading rose. Springing forward, he tried to grasp her hands. She put them behind her back, and stood thus, her face upturned to his, her eyes set on him intently. He spoke in a low hoarse voice.
"I can't stand any more of it. I've tried and tried. I love Vivien in a way, and I hate to hurther. And I hate all the fuss too. But I can't do it any more. You're the girl for me, Isobel! It comes home to me—right home—every time I see you. Let's face it—it'll soon be over! A minute with you is worth an hour with her. I tell you I love you, Isobel." He stooped suddenly and kissed the upturned lips.
"You think that to-night. You won't to-morrow. The—the other side of it will come back."
"Face the other side with me, and I can stand it. You love me—you know you do!"
The trees swayed, murmured, and creaked under the wind; the water lapped on the edge of the lake. The footsteps of a man walking up the drive passed unheard by the engrossed lovers. The man came to where he could see their figures. A sudden stop; then he glided into the cover of the bushes which fringed the lake, and began to crawl cautiously and noiselessly towards the house. To save Wellgood from kicking his heels for an idle hour after dinner in the hotel, and again for an idle half-hour at the station where he had to change, Lord Meriton had performed, at the cost of adétourof seven or eight miles, the friendly office of bringing his colleague home in his motor-car. It is to little accidents like this that impetuous lovers are exposed. So natural when theyhave happened—this thing had even happened once before—so unlikely to be thought of beforehand, they are indeed florins marked by the cunning hand of chance.
Isobel made no effort to deny Harry's challenge.
"Yes, I love you, and you know it. If I didn't, I should be the most treacherous creature on earth, and the worst! Even as it is, I've nothing to boast about. But I love you, and if there were no to-morrow I'd do anything you wish or ask."
"There is no to-morrow now; it will always be like to-night." He bent again and softly kissed her.
"I daren't think so, Harry! I daren't believe it." Unconsciously she raised her voice in a little wail. The words reached Wellgood, where he was now crouching behind a bush. He dared come no nearer, lest they should hear his movements.
Harry had lost all hold on himself now. The pale image of Vivien was obliterated from his mind. He had no doubt about to-morrow—how had he ever doubted?—and he pleaded his cause with a passion eloquent and infectious. It was hard to meet passion like that with denial and doubt; sorely hard when belief would bring such joy and triumph!
"If you do think so to-morrow—" She slowlyput her hands out to him, a happy tremulous smile on her face.
But before he could take her to his arms, a rapid change came into her eyes. She held up a hand in warning. The handle of the door had turned. Both faced round, the door opened, and Vivien looked out.
"Oh, there you are, Isobel!" she exclaimed in a tone of relief. "I couldn't think what had become of you. I went into your room to tell you about the dinner."
"I saw the carriage pass as I was strolling in the drive, but when I got to the door you'd gone in." Her voice shook a little, but her face was now composed.
"It's my fault. I kept Miss Vintry talking on the doorstep."
"I must go in now," said Isobel. "Good-night, Mr. Harry."
Vivien looked at them in some curiosity, but without any suspicion. A thought struck her. "I believe I caught you talking about me," she said with a laugh. "And not much good about me either—because you both look a little flustered."
Wellgood stepped out from behind his bush.
"I think I can tell you what they've been talking about, Vivien, and I will. I've had the pleasure of listening to the last part of it."
He stood there stern and threatening, struggling to keep within bounds the rage that nearly mastered him—the rage of the deceived lover trying still to masquerade as a father's indignation. The father should have sent his daughter away; the lover was minded at all costs to heap shame and humiliation on his favoured rival and on the woman who had deceived him.
"Not before Vivien!" Harry cried impulsively.
Vivien turned eyes of wonder on him for a moment, then the old look of remoteness settled on her face. She stood holding on to the door, for support perhaps, looking now at none of them, looking out into the night.
"This man, your lover, was making love to this woman, whom I employed to look after you." He laughed scornfully. "Oh yes, a rare fool I look! But don't they look fools too? They're nicely caught at last. I daresay they've had a good run, a lot of 'I love you's,' a lot of kisses like the one I saw to-night. But they're caught at last."
Vivien spoke in a low voice. "Is it true, Isobel?" For Harry she had neither words nor eyes.
"It's true," said Isobel; now her voice was calm. "There's no use saying anything about it."
"And you let him do it!" cried Wellgood, his voice rising in passion. "You her friend, you her guardian, you who—" His words seemed nearly to choke him. He turned his fury on to Harry. "You scoundrel, you shall pay for this! I'll make Meriton too hot to hold you! You try to swagger about this place as you've been doing, you try to open your mouth in public, and I'll be there with this pretty story! I'll make an end of your chances in Meriton! You shall find out what it is to make a fool of Mark Wellgood! Yes, you shall pay for it!"
From the beginning Harry had found nothing to say; what was there? His face was sunk in a dull despair, his eyes set on the ground. He shrugged his shoulders now, murmuring hoarsely, "You must do as you like."
Suddenly Isobel spoke out. "This is your doing. If you had let me go, as I wanted to, this wouldn't have happened. You suspected it, and yet you kept me here. I begged you to let me go. You wouldn't. I tried to do the honest thing—to end it all and go. You wouldn't let me—you know why."
"You wanted to go, Isobel?" asked Vivien gently. "And father wouldn't let you?"
"Yes. If he likes to tell you the reason, he can. But I say this is his doing—his! He'sbeen waiting and watching for it. Well, he's got it now, and he must deal with it."
Her taunts broke down the last of Wellgood's self-control. "Yes, I'll deal with it!" The lover forgot the father, the father forgot his daughter. "And I'll deal with him—the blackguard who's interfered between me and you!"
Vivien turned her head towards her father with a quick motion. His eyes were set on Isobel in a furious jealousy. Vivien gave a sharp indrawing of her breath. Now she understood.
"He shall pay for it!" cried Wellgood, and made a dart towards Harry, raising the stick which he had in his hand.
In an instant Vivien was across his path, and caught his uplifted arm in both of hers. "Not that way, father!"
"Go into the house, Vivien."
"For my sake, father!"
"Go into the house, I say. Let me alone."
"Not till you promise me you won't do that."
He looked down into her pleading face. His own softened a little. "Very well, my girl, I promise you I won't do that."
Neither Isobel nor Harry had moved; they made no sign now. Vivien slowly loosed her grasp of her father's arm and turned back towards the door. Suddenly Harry spoke in a hoarse whisper.
"I'm sorry, Vivien, awfully sorry."
Then she looked at him for a moment; a smile of sad wistfulness came on her lips.
"Yes, I'm sure you're awfully sorry, Harry."
She passed into the house, leaving the door open behind her. Harry heard her slow steps crossing the hall.
"There's no more to be said to-night," said Isobel, and moved towards the door. Wellgood was beforehand with her; he barred the way, standing in the entrance.
"Yes, there's one more thing to be said." He was calmer now, but not a whit less angry or less vicious. "From to-night I've done with both of you—I and my house. If you want her, take her. If you can get him, take him—and keep him if you can. Let him remember what I've said. I keep my word. Let him remember! If he doesn't want this story told, let him make himself scarce in Meriton. If he doesn't, as God's above us, he shall hear it wherever he goes. It shall never leave him while I live." He turned back to Isobel. "And I've done with you—I and my house. Do what you like, go where you like. You've set your foot for the last time within my threshold."
Harry looked up with a quick jerk of his head. "You don't mean to-night?"
A grim smile of triumph came on Wellgood's face. "Ah, but I do mean to-night. You're in love with her—you can look after her. I'll leave you the privilege of lodging her to-night. Rather late to get quarters for a lady, but that's your lookout."
"You won't do that, Mr. Wellgood?" said Isobel, the first touch of entreaty in her voice.
With an oath he answered, "I will, and this very minute."
He stood there, with his back to the door, a moment longer, his angry eyes travelling from one to the other, showing his teeth in his vicious smile. He had thought of a good revenge; humiliation, ignominy, ridicule should be the portion of the woman who had cheated him and of the man who took her from him. There was little thought of his daughter in his heart, or he might have shown mercy to this other girl.
"I wish you both a pleasant night," he said with a sneering laugh, then turned, went in, and banged the door behind him. They heard the bolt run into its socket.
Isobel came up to Harry. Stretching out her arms, she laid her hands on his shoulders. Her composure, so long maintained, gave way at last. She broke into hysterical sobbing as she stammered out, "O Harry, my dear, my dear, I'm so sorry! Do forgive!"
Harry Belfield took her face between his two hands and kissed it; but under her embracing hands she felt his shoulders give a little shrug. It was his old protest against those emotions. They had played him another scurvy trick!
The bolt was shot back again, the door opened. Fellowes, the butler, stood there. He held a hat and a long cloak in his hand.
"Miss Vivien told me to give you these, miss, and to say that she wasn't allowed to bring them herself, and that she has done her best."
Harry took the things from him, handed the hat to Isobel, and wrapped her in the cloak.
Fellowes was an old family servant, who had known Harry from a boy.
"I dare do nothing, sir," he said, and went in, and shut the door again.
"It was good of Vivien," said Isobel, with a choking sob.
Harry shrugged his shoulders again. "Well, we must go—somewhere," he said.
At supper the fun waxed fast and harmlessly furious. The party had received an unexpected accession in the person of Jack Rock. He had been caught surveying the "spread" in company with Miss Dutton (she had declined the alarming hospitality of Halton), old Mr. Dove, and the Bird—a trio who had been working for its perfection most of the day and all the evening. Having caught Jack, the Nun would by no means let him go. She made him sit down by her in Harry's vacant place, declaring that room could be found for Harry somewhere when he turned up, and in this honourable position Jack was enjoying himself—honestly, simply, knowing that they were "up to their fun," neither spoilt nor embarrassed. Old Mr. Dove, the Bird, and Miss Miles (when the bar closed she condescended to help at table, because she too had been in the profession) humoured the joke, and served Jackwith a slyly exaggerated deference. Billy Foot referred to him as "the eminent sportsman," and affected to believe that he belonged to the Jockey Club. Gilly, who knew not Jack, perceiving the sportsman but missing the butcher, had a success the origin of which he did not understand when he proceeded to explain to Jack what points were of really vital importance in a sweetbread.
"You gentlemen from London seem to study everything!" exclaimed Jack admiringly.
"This one does credit to the local butcher," said Gilly solemnly, and looked round amazed when all glasses were lifted in honour of Jack Rock.
"Food is the only thing Gilly studies," remarked Miss Dutton. The supper proving satisfactory, she felt at liberty to indulge her one social gift of a sardonic humour.
"Quite right, Sally," Billy agreed. "Food for his own body and for the minds of children. What he makes out of the latter he spends on the former. That both are good you may see at a glance."
"I find myself with something like an appetite," Gilly announced.
"That's how I likes to see folks at the Lion," said old Mr. Dove, easily interposing from behind his chair. "A trifle more, sir?—Miss Miles, your eye seems to have missed Mr. Gilbert Foot's glass."
"La, now, I was looking at Miss Flower's frock!"
"Why, you helped to put it on me! You ought to know it."
"It sets that sweet on you, Miss Flower."
All was merry and gay and easy—a pleasant ending to a pleasant holiday. They all hoped to come back for the wedding, to run down for that eventful day, but work claimed them on the morrow. London clamoured for the Nun—new songs to be rehearsed now and sung in ten days. Billy Foot had a heavy appeal at Quarter Sessions; Gilbert Foot and Co. demanded the attention of its constituent members.
"Harry's a long time getting back," Andy remarked, looking at his watch.
"He's dallying," said Billy. "I should dally myself if I had the chance."
"Perhaps he found Wellgood back; I know he wanted to speak to him—something about the settlements."
"And what might you be going to sing in London next, miss?" asked Jack, gratefully accepting a tankard of beer which Mr. Dove, in silent understanding of his secret wishes, had placed beside him.
"I'm going to be Joan of Arc," said the Nun. "Know much about her, Mr. Rock?"
"Surely, miss! Heard of her at school. The old gentleman used to talk about her too, Andy. Burnt to death for a witch, poor girl, wasn't she?"
"It seems a most appropriate part for our hostess," remarked Billy Foot.
"Silly!" Miss Dutton shot out contemptously.
"It's rather daring, but the Management put perfect reliance in my good taste," the Nun pursued serenely. "In the first song I'm just the peasant girl at—at—well, I forget the name of the village, somewhere in France—it'll be on the programme. In the second I'm in armour—silver armour—exhorting the King of France. They wanted me to be on a horse, but I wouldn't."
"The horse might be heard neighing?" Billy suggested. "Off, you know."
"Then the horse would be where I was afraid of being," said the Nun, and suddenly gurgled.
"Silver armour! My! Don't you want to take me up to see her?" This came, in a perfectly audible aside, from Miss Miles to the Bird. Old Mr. Dove coughed, yet benevolently.
"Much armour?" asked Gilly, suddenly emerging from a deep attention to his plate. His hopes obviously running towards what may be styled a classical entertainment, the question was received with merriment.
"Completely encased, Gilly. I shall look likea lobster. Still, Mr. Rock will come and see me, if the rest of you don't."
"There are possibilities about Joan of Arc," Gilly pursued. "Not at all bad to lead off with Joan of Arc. Andy, you might make a note of Joan."
"If a frontispiece is of any use to you, Gilly—?" the Nun suggested politely.
"What can have become of Harry?" Again it was Andy Hayes who asked.
The Nun turned to him and, under cover of Billy's imaginative description of the frontispiece, said softly, "Can't you be happy unless you know Harry Belfield's all right?"
"He's a very long time," said Andy. "And they're early at Nutley, you know. Perhaps he's decided to go straight home to bed."
She looked at him for a moment, but said nothing. The tide of merry empty talk—gone in the speaking, like the wine in the drinking, yet not less pleasant—flowed on; only now Miss Flower to some degree shared Andy's taciturnity. She was not apprehensive or gloomy; it seemed merely that some sense of the real, the ordinary, course of life had come back to her; the hour of careless gaiety was no longer, like Joan of Arc, "completely encased" in silver armour.
Jack Rock turned to her, bashful, humble, yetsure of her kindness. "I must be goin', miss; I've to be up and about by seven. But—would you sing to us, miss, same as you did at that meetin'?"
It was against etiquette to ask the Nun to sing on private occasions; if she chose, she volunteered. But Jack was, naturally, innocent of the etiquette.
"Of course I'll sing for you. Any favourite song, Jack?"
"What pleases you'll please me, miss," said old Jack.
"I'll sing you an old Scotch one I happen to know."
Silence obtained—from Billy Foot with some difficulty, since he had got into an argument with Sally Dutton—the Nun began to sing:—
"My Jeany and I have toiledThe livelong Summer's Day:Till we were almost spoil'dAt making of the Hay.Her Kerchy was of holland clear,Tied to her bonny brow,I whispered something in her ear;But what is that to you?"
"My Jeany and I have toiled
The livelong Summer's Day:
Till we were almost spoil'd
At making of the Hay.
Her Kerchy was of holland clear,
Tied to her bonny brow,
I whispered something in her ear;
But what is that to you?"
The Bird, who had been dispatched to get Gilly Foot a whisky-and-soda, came in, set it down, and moved towards Andy. "Be still with you, Tom!" said Jack Rock imperiously.