Only the new Vicar did nothing towards the installation of his home, except appreciate it enormously. He was out all day among his parishioners, whom he found the nicest sort of people he had ever met.
On a day early in his summer holidays Young George went over to Feltham Hall to lunch with his friend and schoolfellow, Jimmy Beckley. Mr. and Mrs. Beckley and their eldest daughter were away. "You don't mind putting up with the kids at lunch," said Jimmy. "We can shift them afterwards or make them useful if we want to play games. Ruth and Jane aren't bad at tennis, and I've trained them all to bowl to me at a net. We can have a little cricket practise if you like."
Jimmy himself had reached the ripe age of fifteen. He was the only son of his house. The kids to whom he referred were his sisters Ruth, Jane, Isabel, and Ellen, who ranged in age from sixteen to eleven, and whom he affected to rule with a rod of iron. They were rather subdued in manner, but more, perhaps, because their father, who had married late in life, was something of a martinet, and they spent their days in company with an accomplished and decisive French governess, than because they were in any particular dread of Jimmy's rod.
"Mademoiselle will want to jabber French at you," Jimmy warned his friend. "They're supposed to do it at lunch, and I don't mind it myself, because it'sgood training. But you can answer her in English if you like. She understands all right. She's not a bad sort, though apt to think she has some authority over me, which of course she hasn't. You'll make allowances for that. She's been here five years, and of course I was only a kid when she came."
"Oh, I'll make allowances all right," said Young George. "If she corrects your table manners, I'll pretend I don't understand."
Jimmy passed this by, as being beneath his dignity to reply to. "Lunch won't be for another half-hour," he said. "We might go and have a look at the gees. The governor bought a new pair of carriage horses the other day which I should like you to throw your eye over."
"Which one?" asked Young George. "I can throw better with the right."
"Funny ass!" said Jimmy. "I think the governor depends too much on the judgment of Kirby, the head coachman. He's a shooting man himself, and doesn't take the interest in his cattle that you or I would."
"I like cattle myself," said Young George; "especially good milkers."
Jimmy thought it was time to rebuke this spirit of levity. "You seem rather above yourself this morning, George," he said. "I suppose you're bucked with the idea of seeing Maggie Williams. You'll be glad to hear that I told Ruth to ask her to tea. I've no fancy for infants myself, but I'm aware some people like 'em."
Young George blushed, but did not allow himself to be confounded. "Have you seen Kate Pemberton since you've been home?" he asked.
"When you're ready to talk sensibly, I may perhaps tell you something about Kate Pemberton," said Jimmy. "As long as you're in this rotting mood, I prefer to keep it to myself."
"I wouldn't rot upon such a serious subject as love's young dream," said Young George. "You ought to know me better than that, Jimmy."
They had by this time reached the stables. It seemed to Young George that Jimmy showed some relief at being told that the head coachman was at his dinner. He told one of the grooms to strip the horses they had particularly come to inspect, and entered into a long and technical discussion with him as to their points and qualifications. Young George listened, not without admiration. He couldn't have done it so well himself, and his tendency to 'rot' was subdued by the time the inspection was over and they had left the stables on the way towards the house.
"I say," he said, "what was it you wanted to tell me about Kate Pemberton?"
Jimmy did not reply directly. "You know, old chap, I'm not so sure that you're not right in preferring a youngster like Maggie Williams," he said. "Girls of that age haven't got our knowledge of the world, of course. But they're devilish taking sometimes. And they look up to you more than an older woman does."
"I like Maggie all right," said Young George, with elaborate unconcern. "She's very lively and amusing; but I've never said I was gone on her, as you've said you were on Kate Pemberton."
"No, you haven'tsaidit," said Jimmy significantly. "However, I don't want to press for confidences you don't care about giving me. About Kate Pemberton—I must confess I have thought a good deal about her for the last two years—at least in the hunting season I have; it calmed down a bit last summer. Nobody could help admiring her on a horse."
"She goes like a good 'un," said Young George. "I suppose you mean you're calming down a bit now. Have you seen her since you've been home?"
"Yes, I rode over to Grays yesterday afternoon. That's what I wanted to tell you about. There was a fellow there called Colonel Webster; I think he's a Gunner. Unless I'm very much mistaken he's there for one purpose and one purpose only."
Young George was impressed. "Did she seem to like him?" he asked.
"She couldn't be expected to show that before me," said Jimmy. "I must say she was as nice as ever. She knows how to treat a fellow a bit younger than herself. There's none of that 'Oh, you're only a little boy' sort of business that some people seem to think so funny."
"If you mean Barbara," said Young George, "it's only her fun. She does the same sort of thing to me, and I don't mind it."
"I wasn't thinking of Barbara," said Jimmy, "I know it's only rotting with her, and we rot her in return. When is Barbara coming back, by the bye?"
"Monday, I think. Well, go on—about the Colonel who has cut you out."
"That's just the whole point, my son," said Jimmy. "I'm not going to let him cut me out."
"What are you going to do then—challenge him with pistols?"
"No, I'm going to retire. To tell you the honest, I'm not sure I haven't made rather an ass of myself over Kate."
"Oh, don't say that, Jimmy."
"How old should you say she was, now?"
"I don't know. I should think about thirty."
"Oh, give her a chance, old man. I happen to know she's twenty-six. Well, you see it's all right now. I reckon that fellows of our age, who have knocked about a bit and know what's what, are equal to girls of ten years or so older. In fact, Kate has always treated me as an equal, as I told you, and in a good many things she's deferred to my opinion. At the same time, you've got to look ahead a bit. You know yourself that amanof twenty-six is still young.Ishall be all right in ten years' time, but I ask myself whatshe'll be—eh?"
"A bit long in the tooth," suggested Young George.
"Well, there you are," said Jimmy. "I shall always have a friendly feeling for Kate. After all, she was the first girl Ireallycared about. Others beforeher were just fancies that I grew out of. I think she'll always remember me too. We've had some good times together. But I think it's time it ended now. I shall make a few enquiries about this fellow Webster, and if I find that he's a decent chap, and means to run straight, as I've no reason to suppose he doesn't, I shall stand aside."
"Well, I think it's very noble of you," said Young George. "I say, what's the French for 'How do you do?'"
Mademoiselle was standing at the hall door, and somewhat ruffled Jimmy's dignity by enquiring in voluble French whether he hadn't heard the gong five minutes ago and whether he had already washed his hands for lunch. She smiled affably at Young George, however, as she shook hands with him, and said that evidently in the vacations one must not be too exigent as to punctuality.
"Commencez donc, Mam'selle," said Jimmy. "Nous allons laver les mains, moi et Monsieur Grafton. Nous descendons toute de suite."
"I say, youcanchuck it off!" said Young George admiringly, as they went upstairs; and Jimmy felt his self-respect restored. "I've picked it up going abroad," he said. "You've got to be pretty good at it for Diplomacy, you know. May as well get used to it early."
"I thought you'd chucked the idea of Diplomacy."
"Ah, that's when I thought I should want to make money—youknow."
"Oh, I see. You were going to chuck Oxford too."
"I shall go to Oxford. The governor was there. Pity to break the tradition. And you may as well have a good time while you're young. I shan't settle down for some years now. I'm glad I've made a clean breast of it all to you, George. It gives one a good deal to think about, but I feel I've done the right thing."
"I'm sure you have," said Young George sympathetically. "You don't want to tie yourself up at your age."
The four Beckley girls, flaxen-haired and pig-tailed, and Mademoiselle, were already at table, and Young George went round and shook hands with the girls before taking his seat. He privately thought them a very dull lot, being used to the gay talkativeness of his own sisters, which was a great contrast to their don't-speak-till-you're-spoken-to manner, but he did not allow his opinion to be apparent; and he was excessively liked in the Beckley family, the younger members of which, always excepting the son of the house, were not accustomed to so much notice as Young George gave them. Mademoiselle liked him also, and had said of him that his manners were as good as those of a young Frenchman. If the Beckley girls had not thought that they were a good deal better this well-meant commendation would have reduced him in their eyes; for they hated all things French with a deadly hatred.
Mademoiselle, out of compliment to Young George, permitted English to be spoken during the meal. Itwas only Jimmy who forgot the permission occasionally, his sisters being rejoiced to be freed from the shackles of the detested tongue, and taking a more lively part in the conversation in consequence. Young George found Ruth, next to whom he sat, more sympathetic than he had been aware of. She had a great admiration for Barbara, whose freedom of speech and action she secretly envied, and Young George, who was proud of all his sisters, told several anecdotes of Barbara's ready wit, which were well received.
"Qu'elle est mignonne, cette petite, n'est ce pas, Mam'selle?" said Jimmy, after a story which had been greeted with approving laughter.
"If she heard you calling her 'petite' she would smack your 'ead, vieux grandpère," said Mademoiselle. "I know her. And I have told you that you need not speak French. You are not so ready with it when you don't want to make a show off."
"I'd offer you a cigarette in the governor's room," said Jimmy after lunch, "but Mam'selle would be quite likely to come in and kick up a fuss. They're very trying, these foreign women. But she's been with us so long one's got to humour her. We might go and sit by the tennis lawn till the girls come out. We can smoke there. It's away from the house."
"The Governor asked me not to smoke till I'm a bit older," said Young George, "but I'll watch you if you like."
"If you don't I won't," said Jimmy, putting his cigarette case back into his pocket.
"I won't tell anybody," said Young George.
"It isn't that," said Jimmy. "As a matter of fact I've been overdoing it a bit lately. Do me good to pull up a bit. I only suggested it to keep you company."
They sat on a garden-seat facing the tennis lawn, and talked for some time about school affairs, Jimmy showing himself less burdened by the weight of maturity as they did so. He reverted, however, to his air of experienced middle age when the talk veered round to the coming holidays, and home surroundings, and Young George said to him: "You know all the people living about here better than I do! What do you think of the Manserghs?"
"Old Mansergh's a grumpy old varmint," said Jimmy. "Bit of a flyer in his youth. Of coursesheisn't out of the top drawer, as anybody can see. She's a good-natured old thing though, wherever he picked her up. She always wants to stuff my pockets with chocolate creams, even now. I like the old thing."
"So do I," said Young George. "She isn't Dick's or Geoffrey's mother, though. What do you think of Dick?"
"Not a bad sort of fellow by any means," said Jimmy, "though a bit off-hand in his ways. Doesn't take much notice of chaps younger than himself. Still, he's a good sportsman, and they say he's a jolly good sailor too. Bound to go up the ladder if he sticks to it."
"He's always been very decent to me."
"Ah, that's because he's after B. You feel like that, you know, towards the brother of a girl you've taken a fancy to. I was always particularly careful to make myself pleasant to Bertie Pemberton. I shan't take so much trouble about it now, though he's not a bad chap either."
"You've spotted it, then!" said Young George in some surprise.
"My dear fellow, it's as plain as the nose on your face," said Jimmy.
"Well, I only did yesterday. How can you have spotted it? You've hardly ever seen them together."
"I saw quite enough, last holidays. The first thing I asked Vera when I came home this time was: 'How's that little affair between Dick Mansergh and B Grafton going?'"
"Oh, then it was Vera who told you! You do give yourself airs of knowing every damn thing, Jimmy. It makes one think twice about consulting you on anything."
"I was half pulling your leg," said Jimmy, with unwonted meekness. "As a matter of fact I did notice him paying a lot of attention to B, as long ago as last Christmas, when we had our play. She looked topping that night; I could hardly keep my eyes off her. If I hadn't been paying attention myself in another quarter—"
"It would be rather a good sort of marriage for her," said Young George. "Wilborough is a jolly place, and it's only three miles from Abington. Itwould be jolly if she were to marry him and go and live there. We should see a lot of her."
"There's one thing I will say about you, George, you're a jolly good brother to your sisters. I admire you for it. Other fellows' sisters are all very well, but it isn't many chaps who think such a lot of their own as you do. I've half a mind to take a leaf out of your book, and make a bit of a fuss of mine. They're not so good-looking as yours, but they're not so bad. I thought Vera had improved a good lot when I came home."
There was a questioning note in his statement, but Young George did not catch it. "I think they're a very good-looking crowd," he said perfunctorily. "What I can't make out is whether B has taken tohimor not."
"Ah, poor little girl!" said Jimmy sapiently. "She was knocked over by that affair last year. I don't suppose she's ready for it again yet."
"Well, you do know something, after all. That's just what Caroline said when I asked her."
"What, that she wasn't ready for it? You see, George, a girl's first affair is pretty serious with her. One or two of 'em have told me that. Of course she thinks it's the only one, and if she doesn't marry the fellow she'll never forget him, or care for anybody else, and all that sort of thing. When she's jolly wellgotto forget him, like B, she still goes on thinking that it can't happen to her again."
"H'm!" said Young George reflectively. "I'm notquite sure that B isn't waking up. I'll tell you something if you'll swear not to repeat it."
Jimmy swore.
"I didn't tell Caroline. I thought I'd pump her first. But she wasn't giving much away."
"Women stick by one another," commented Jimmy.
"Well, he rode over to lunch yesterday, and Iknowhe meant to stay for the afternoon, though he didn't actually say so. The Governor was up in London, and Caroline and the Dragon had gone over to lunch with Mollie Pemberton. Well, they made it pretty plain they didn't want me with them afterwards. B was as nice as possible about it—she always is decent with me—but—well, I needn't spin it out, but they went into the garden, and I found myself left."
"Wait a minute," said Jimmy. "Let's get it straight. It was B who got rid of you."
"Well, Dick did ask me if I'd be kind enough to take a message up to Worthing for him, but—yes, it was she who got me off."
"Did you go up to Worthing?"
"No, I knew he was over at Wilborough. He's agent there too, you know. I rather think Dick knew it as well as I did."
"Ah!" said Jimmy significantly.
"Then B asked me to be an angel and bring her some work she'd been doing, which was in the Long Gallery. So I went up there and couldn't find it, though I hunted about everywhere. At last I found it in her bedroom."
"You're jolly good to your sisters, George."
"Oh, well, they're very decent to me. I took it out, and they weren't anywhere to be seen."
"No, I suppose not. Well, if you ask me, I think it's a pretty clear case."
"I haven't told you everything yet. I didn't quite know what to do with myself, so I thought I'd go exploring. There are lots of funny attics and places up in the roof. I found a rummy little place I'd never seen before, where I shouldn't wonder if priests usen't to hide."
"Anything in it?"
"Only a dead bat. I suppose I was up there about half an hour. I'd got pretty mucky, and was just brushing some of it off by a little window, when I saw Dick coming out of the stables on his horse. I didn't see his face, but he looked as if he was waxy."
"That would be, what—an hour after lunch?"
"Yes, I should think about. Well, I came down the stairs from the attics into the corridor that goes round that corner, and there was B standing just behind the curtain of the window looking out after him."
"Did she see you?"
"Yes, of course. She was awfully annoyed, and said I'd given her a fright."
"What was her face like?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I was so surprised at the way she slanged me that I didn't take much notice—except afterwards, and then I thought it wasall jolly rum, and that there must have been something else. And she was so decent about it afterwards, and said she was sorry she'd spoken to me like that, and asked me not to tell the others."
"Ah!" said Jimmy. "That tells a tale."
"Well, what do you think about it?" asked Young George.
"I think I'll have a cigarette, after all," said Jimmy. "It helps you to think."
He lit one elaborately, and blew the smoke out of his nose with a reflective air, while Young George waited anxiously for the result of his deliberation.
"What happened was this, George," he said. "He proposed to her, and she meant him to. But she wasn't ready to give in at once, and he got annoyed. She gave him to understand that if he didn't like it he could lump it, not thinking he'd take it seriously. Now, lots of men don't know that you needn't take any account of what a girl says. It's often the opposite of what she means. Girls are like that. What you can say is that Mansergh didn't know enough. He gets shirty, and of course that simply makes her worse. Then he clears out, and the moment he's gone she's sorry. Was she crying, by the bye, when she was standing at the window?"
"No," said Young George doubtfully. "I'm not sure, though, now I come to think of it, that she didn't later on. She almost did when she apologised to me for slanging me."
"Poor little girl!" said Jimmy tenderly. "Itreally makes you feel rather soft towards them, the way they show their feelings, doesn't it? I tell you, Grafton, a girl could do almost anything she liked with me—a pretty girl, that is—if she only knew her power, and how to use it. Never do to let them know, though. I think, myself, Mansergh was quite right not to let her get the bulge over him in that way, and to clear out."
"I thought you said just now that he cleared out because he didn't know enough."
"Well, he needn't have cleared out, perhaps. I should have shown her that it wouldn't wash, if it had been me, and she'd soon have given it up. Well, old man, I don't think there's much harm done. He'll come back again all right, and they'll make it up. And when two people make it up, in that condition—well, it's getting close on to the time for putting up the banns."
Voices were heard approaching from behind the shrubs, and one of them seemed to be talking a foreign language in a high-pitched authoritative voice. Jimmy hastily threw his cigarette away, and made no apology for doing so. "They'll want us to play tennis," he said. "We'd better go and get our shoes."
Young George drove himself home with very pleasant recollections of his afternoon. He had found the Beckley girls quite humanly entertaining when out of sight and hearing of their 'awful old Mademoiselle,' and when Maggie Williams had joined the party they had all enjoyed themselves exceedingly. She was a pretty, lively girl, ready to amuse herself in whatever company should be provided for her, and had made it plain that she particularly liked that of Young George.
Young George felt that he was beginning to know what love really was. Memories of the way Maggie tossed her masses of dark hair, and looked when she spoke to him, out of her laughing eyes, beguiled his homeward journey. She was the only girl he had ever met worthy to be compared with his own sisters, and it was an addition to his pleasure that they approved of her. He had been a little anxious about that when he had first begun to think a good deal about her, because Jimmy had been so very contemptuous at the idea of taking notice of a girl of fourteen. But after Maggie had been over to Abington, and he had waited rather anxiously to hear the comments that might be made about her, Beatrix had said: "Dear old boy, Ithink you have very good taste. She's much the prettiest girl anywhere about here, except us; and she's very nice too." And Barbara had said: "If I've got to lose you, Bunting, I'd as soon Maggie had you as anybody. I should scratch anybody else's eyes out."
Even Jimmy seemed to have waked up to Maggie's charm. He had taken a good deal more notice of her that afternoon than ever before, and had told Young George as he went off that he'd only been rotting when he had chaffed him about her. In the present unattached state of his affections, Young George had had a faint idea that Jimmy might be preparing to cut him out. But, although Maggie had responded frankly to his unusual attentions to her, it was Young George whose conversation and society she had obviously preferred. This memory gave him an agreeable sensation under the ribs as he went over the signs of it. Jimmy would not be able to cut him out, but it was satisfying to have his taste thus endorsed by a man of such wide experience in these affairs.
When he had nearly reached home and was driving up the road through the park, he descried two figures strolling through the fern towards him. He recognised them as Dick Mansergh and Beatrix, and either something in their attitude towards one another, although they were walking apart, or the thoughts upon which his own mind had been running, gave him the idea that whatever differences they may have had were at an end, and the engagement which he and Jimmy hadagreed would be such an eminently suitable one had come to pass.
And so it proved. Beatrix looked up at the sound of his wheels, and signalled to him, and both of them came across the grass to intercept him. Beatrix was smiling as she came up. "Bunting, darling, we've been waiting for you," she said.
Dick was smiling too. "We've got something to tell you," he said.
"Congratters!" said Young George, rather shyly. "I know what it is."
Then Beatrix stretched up to him and kissed him, and Dick looked as if he wished he had been in his place, but did not claim a kiss for himself.
Young George commented upon this in a confidential talk with Caroline afterwards. "He strikes me as a strong sort of chap, who puts control over himself," he said. "I think that's what B wants, don't you?"
Caroline hesitated a little. "Yes, perhaps she does," she said. "You know, Bunting, it was rather a surprise to me when it did come. I didn't say much to you when you asked me yesterday, because I didn't think she was ready for it yet, though I thought she would be sooner or later."
"Don't you think she's in love with him, then?"
"She wouldn't want to marry him if she weren't."
"Perhaps he made her say she would. She looked pleased all right when she told me, but not—well, you know what I mean—sort of carried away."
Caroline sighed. "I wish he'd been the first," she said.
This was immediately after Young George had come home. Dick had driven himself over to luncheon. She and Beatrix and Miss Waterhouse had been in the Long Gallery when his name had been brought up, and Beatrix had said: "Oh, bother! I wanted to have a quiet afternoon." But over the luncheon table she had been in higher spirits than during the morning, when she had either been alone or sitting with them over her work, saying very little. This had given Caroline the idea that she was rather pleased that he had come over, after all, but had not in the least prepared her for what afterwards happened.
They had all gone out into the garden. Tennis had been suggested, but it was very hot, and there were only three of them. They had sat and talked together, and after a time Caroline had gone indoors, but not with the object of leaving them alone together. If he had wanted that, Beatrix had given no sign that she did.
She had come out an hour later, but they had gone off somewhere together. Tea was in the yew arbour, and as she was pouring it out, for herself and Miss Waterhouse, they had come up, and Dick had made his announcement. "Well, B and I have settled it up together. We're going to get married as soon as they'll let us."
Looking back upon what had followed, Caroline could not yet gauge all that lay beneath the matter-of-factair with which both of them treated the momentous event. With Dick, it was not so difficult. Probably Bunting had found the right solution of his steady unemotional way of bearing himself. He was a man of strong self-control, but there were signs in his voice and in his look that a great deal of ferment lay under the crust of his manner, and would become apparent if he were not under the compulsion of hiding it.
But why should he have been under that compulsion at such a time, when love had found its triumphant reward, and there was no one before whom he need hide his exultation?
How did Beatrix really stand towards him? She had always treated his obvious pursuit of her lightly, and never as if her heart had been in the least touched by his suit, though Caroline had believed that in time it might be. Dick had been a good deal in London during the latter part of the season, and he had been there because Beatrix was there, for it was not his habit to devote his leaves to a round of fashionable engagements. Beatrix had talked about him when she had returned home, but not as if he had made any further impression upon her. Nor had there been any difference in her attitude towards him since, though his visits had been more frequent and his suit presumably more pressing than before.
Certainly, Caroline thought, she had not intended to accept him that afternoon, and if she had admitted to herself a possibility that she might do so, Carolinethought she would have divined it. Having accepted him, she was much as she had been before. She was bright, and contented, and complete mistress of herself. She talked of their father, and of others, friends and relations who might be expected to be pleased at her news. They had already sent off telegrams, going down to the village themselves before tea. They had both talked of an early marriage, and of where they would live, and of what she would do while Dick was at sea. She had been affectionate to Caroline, but had not responded to her little secret advances of love and sympathy, which no one else would have noticed but to which she would have answered readily enough if she had wanted to.
Caroline's heart was rather heavy. Beatrix had poured out all the tale of her love to her a year before, and afterwards relied on her more than any one to assuage her pain. Was she to be kept out of this new love altogether? Or was there no love that could be acknowledged and rejoiced over? Caroline would have little to offer if it was to be an affair of a suitable marriage only. Without love, it would not be so eminently suitable. In the future Beatrix would have the sort of place in the world to which her birth and connections entitled her. But in the meantime, as the wife of a sailor on active service, if she were to be with him as much as possible, she would be cut off from a great deal of what she had been accustomed to, and there would be no settling down for her anywhere. On the face of it, her life would be less in accordancewith her tastes as Dick's wife than Caroline's would be if she were to marry Francis Parry. And Caroline had told her father that if she had loved Francis that wouldn't have mattered; she would have been happy with him anywhere, as Viola Prescott had been happy with her husband in surroundings little fitted for her. But without love it would matter—surely to Beatrix as much as to herself.
And Beatrix had loved so whole-heartedly and so tenderly, although she had had only a very short time to give herself up freely to the joy that had come to her. And after that, until the end had come, she had only had hope and the trust that was to be betrayed to uphold her; but still she had flowered and developed under it. Love meant very much to her. When the wounds left by the destruction of her first love had healed she must love again in some happy time. She could not do without it. Wasn't she laying up unhappiness for herself in taking a love that she could not return in full measure? And was it fair to the man who would want from her everything that it was in her to give to one whom she should love as she had loved once already?
Dick stayed to dinner, and the Prescotts came, and there was an air of excitement and anticipatory pleasure over the whole evening. Beatrix was in much higher spirits than she had been after the news had been broken to Caroline and Miss Waterhouse at tea time. She was flushed and sparkling, and talked continuously. Nor did she withhold from her lover those signs whichare so sweet to one who has gained the fulfilment of his hopes, when he has to share his loved one with others, but is made to feel that there is much for him alone. Dick's self-control was not so much in evidence now, however cautiously he seemed to be testing the ice of his happiness and finding it to bear. As a newly engaged couple they fully satisfied Viola Prescott, who said to Caroline in a confidential aside after dinner: "Isn't she adorable over it? I've never seen her look so lovely before. It's happiness that does it all."
But Caroline still bore a weight on her heart. She and Beatrix had been alone together for a short time before dinner, and Beatrix had given her some confidences. But they had not been such as to lighten the weight. "He's such a dear!" she had said. "I really had to accept him, though I hadn't meant to just yet. Now I'm glad I have. And I'm sure darling old Dad will be pleased."
These were not the confidences that she had given Caroline after her engagement to Lassigny. Their father had not been pleased, but his displeasure had not stemmed the outpourings of love. Now it seemed that to please him was of paramount importance. No answering telegram had come from him, and when Dick and the Prescotts had taken their departure Beatrix showed herself disturbed by this.
"Surely he can't be angry this time," she said, "because Dick didn't ask him first, I mean. That's what he didn't like—before. But he must have knownthat Dick was coming here because of me, and he never tried to stop it, or said anything about it."
Caroline and Miss Waterhouse both reassured her. The telegram had gone to the Bank—not very early in the afternoon. He must have left before it came; and it had not been forwarded to him, or else it had not found him before the offices closed.
She came to Caroline's room for those preparations for the night which they made together when they wanted to talk. But there were no more confidences of any sort. It was her father whom she still talked of in connection with her engagement and marriage. And she talked of her marriage more than of her engagement, which she seemed to want cut short. With Lassigny she had been quite content to wait. She had talked very little of marriage, and had seemed to have formed no clear picture in her mind of what her life with him would be. She loved him and he loved her, and that was enough.
"Dick says I can come home as much as I like, while he is at sea. I know Dad will want to have me. Iwishhe had telegraphed. He won't think I don't love him as much as ever because I am going to leave him, will he? I love him a thousand times more. I told Dick he must never take me away from him for very long."
"What does Dick feel about Dad?" asked Caroline, remembering what her father had said to her on that subject when they had ridden together.
"Oh, he loves him. He told me he had first comeover here because he liked him so much. It wasn't me—until later—not very much later, though. It was nearly love at first sight, but not quite. He says he doesn't think there is such a thing really. If there is it isn't the best sort of love, because it's only what a person looks like. I'm rather frightened, you know, finding what sort of person Dick thinks I am. I hope I shall be able to live up to it."
"It won't want living up to, darling, if you love him. You'll only have to be yourself. That would be enough for any man."
Beatrix flung her arms round her neck and kissed her warmly. "Youknow I'm not perfect, darling," she said. "But you love me all the same, don't you?"
For a moment, as she clung to her, Caroline thought that there were to be the real confidences for which she was aching. She returned her embrace, with her heart in her throat. But Beatrix drew herself away. "He does love me; and I love him," she said, with an air of finality. But there had been ever so little of a pause between the two statements.
Grafton's telegram came early the next morning, "Delighted, my darling; love and blessings. Have wired to Dick, shall be down this evening. Bring him to meet me."
It was Thursday, and he had not intended to come down until the following day. There was no doubt about the pleasure the news had given him. Beatrix went about the house singing.
Late that evening Caroline came down to talk toher father, who was reading in the library over a last pipe. One of the signs of his changed habits was the considerable diminution of his cigar bill.
He looked up with a smile of pleasure. "Why, my darling child," he said, "I thought you were in bed long ago. Have you been talking it all over with B?"
"No," she said. "I thought I'd come and talk it all over with you, Dad."
He laid aside his book. "Well, it's all very satisfactory, isn't it?" he said. "Rather different from last time! We weren't in such a happy state a year ago."
"It wasn't quite a year ago," she said. "And it isn't six months ago since she was so much in love with somebody else."
"I know. I knew she'd get over it. But I confess I didn't think she'd get over it quite so quickly."
She didn't reply. He looked at her, and asked: "What's the matter, darling? Aren't you pleased about it? Shehasgot over that other business, hasn't she?"
"If you mean, does she love him any more, of course she doesn't. But I don't think she has got over it all the same. It has altered her."
She had drawn a chair close up to his and was leaning against it. He took her hand. "Darling child," he said, "you're too sensitive. You're feeling losing her. She hasn't talked to you enough about it. But she will, you know, when she has settled down."
"She has talked to you, hasn't she, Dad?"
"Yes, she's talked to me. Nobody could have been sweeter than she was. I'm very lucky in my daughters, Cara. Both of you—all three of you—know that you can come to me and tell me about these things that girls don't usually confide to their fathers. You've done it, and now B has done it. She didn't do it last time. That shows what a right marriage this is, and what a wrong one that would have been."
"She would have done it, last time, darling, if you hadn't stopped it."
His pressure on her hand that he was holding relaxed. "Surely—" he began, but she caught him up hurriedly: "Oh, I don't mean that you weren't right to stop it; buthowhas she talked to you about Dick—and her engagement to him?"
He smiled, and gave her hand a little squeeze. "Why, just in the way that would most please an affectionate parent," he said. "I like Dick immensely; I think he's a fine fellow, and there's a lot more in him than appears on the surface. But she spared me rhapsodies about him. She knew, I suppose, that I could take all that for granted, and should be soothed by being made to feel that I hadn't got to give up everything to him. She's my darling child still, and always will be. And, as I told you, I like Dick well enough to take him in. They'll both be to me what your dear mother and I were to her father. I don't think I could love B any more than I do now. But though I'm giving her up I shan't love her any less. And I shan't mind giving her up. I'm happier—for my own sake—about herthan I was when I first had her news. She has what she wants to make her happy, and she has given me all I want to make me happy."
"I'm so glad, Dad," she said. "And though I suppose she'll be away a lot just at first, by and bye they will be living here, and you'll see as much of her as you want."
She led him on to talk of the surface facts of the engagement. The marriage would take place, and it was well for him that he thought as he did about it. She had wondered if he would see, as she thought she saw, that Beatrix was fixing her own mind upon those surface facts, and what his wisdom would make of her chance of happiness if she had not brought the deep love that she had it in her to bring to her betrothal. But he had not seen it, though what he was pleased with in her confidences to him only confirmed Caroline's own mistrust. The rhapsodies that she had dispensed him from listening to would surely have been sounded if the impulse towards them had been there. She would have asked for his loving sympathy in what filled her own mind, and shown her love for him in asking for it just as much as by assuring him of that love.
But she was glad for his sake that he had seen nothing. She kissed him good-night, and said: "When B goes there'll only be you and me, Daddy, till Barbara comes home. I shan't leave you for a long time yet."
It was nearly twelve o'clock when Caroline went up to her room. Her mind was calmed by her talk with her father. She loved him so much that his contentment could hardly fail of some reflection in her. And, though jealousy was far removed from her, it gave her pleasure to think that when Beatrix had left him he would need her love and companionship more. Perhaps it was, as he had said, she was feeling hurt that Beatrix had not come to her for the deep love and sympathy that was there for her in her joys as well as in her troubles. Although her sympathies had not been undivided in that trouble of a year ago, for she had believed that her father had been right and had felt for him during a period of something like estrangement as much as she had felt for Beatrix in being parted from her lover, still her heart had beaten much closer to her sister's then than it did now. Beatrix had leant upon her. She had been wayward; perhaps she had even been selfish. She had often hurt Caroline, when the hurt in herself had made her hard and unreasonable towards all but the one who could then have assuaged it. But Caroline had gone through it all with her, and loved her all the more for having shared her pain. It was rather hard if she was tobe held at arm's length now, after having given so much, and being ready to give so much.
Her sadness came upon her again when she had shut herself into her room and made ready for bed. She heard her father go upstairs, and the house became quite still. The clock of the church began to strike, and the clock on the stable turret chimed in on a fainter, quicker note. Before they had finished, the door of her room opened and startled her wildly. It was Beatrix, who came in, a figure all in white, and threw herself into her arms, and clung to her sobbing.
For a moment Caroline felt giddy with the shock of her surprise, and the fear of what was coming. But she rallied herself and murmuring soft words drew Beatrix to the bed and sat there holding her to her breast.
"I've been such anawfulbeast to you, darling," Beatrix sobbed, "I had to come and ask you to forgive me. I couldn't sleep till I told you how much I love you."
The childish confession made Caroline inclined to laugh and cry at the same time, but brought with it such a sense of relief as was almost bliss to her troubled mind.
"I know you have wanted me to tell you everything," Beatrix went on, her sobs becoming less frequent, "and I've wanted to all the time. But something horrid in me kept it back, and I know I've hurt you frightfully, darling, and I shall never forgive myself for it as long as I live."
Caroline swept the hair from her forehead and kissed her lovingly, as her mother might have done. She felt immeasurably older than her sister, who seemed to her a little child again. "If you tell me now, my darling!" she said tenderly.
Beatrix sat up, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of Caroline's light dressing-gown. "Yes, I will. I want to," she said, in a pathetic voice. "It's only you I can tell everything to."
She bent her head and played with the ribbon that lay across Caroline's knee. "I know what you have thought," she said. "I didn't seem to be noticing, or to care, but I felt it all through me all the time. I couldn't be such a hard-hearted beast as not to mind what you were thinking, darling."
A few more tears and answering caresses, and she told her story, with her head on Caroline's shoulder, and Caroline's arm round her.
"I don't think I've behaved very well to Dick," she said. "I knew that he loved me very much, and yet I played with him. Perhaps I even led him on. But I didn't know how much he really did love me, or I wouldn't have done it. He's so strong and so deep; it was like playing with fire. Perhaps I didn't do anything very wrong till two days ago, for though I'd let him talk to me I hadn't given him any idea that I—that I wanted him to go any further. He has told me since that he would never have asked me to marry him unless I had said or done something to make him think that he could. I suppose I saw that it was likethat. I felt, somehow, that he was trying to bend me to his will—no, not that, but there was something in him thatIcouldn't move. And that vexed me. Oh, I was a beast! We went into the garden; I'd sent Bunting away so that I could show him I wanted to be alone with him. Then I led him on to tell me that he loved me; and at last he did. Then—oh, I hate myself for what I did."
She stopped, and cried again on Caroline's shoulder. Caroline soothed her, but felt her heart growing heavy again.
"Well, I must tell you everything," she began again, "but I wish I hadn't got it to tell. It spoils everything. When he told me that he loved me, and asked me to marry him, I pretended to be very surprised, and said that I'd no idea of marrying him. He was very quiet, and let me go on. I said I didn't love him; I had had enough of that sort of love, and only loved you, and Dad, and the others. I can't think what made me go on like that. I was afool. But he stopped me suddenly. He was very angry. He said I had known quite well that he would say what he had, and that I had meant him to, and that I wasn't what he had thought I was. Then he went away, without saying good-bye or anything.
"I was frightened then, and—and ashamed of myself, because what he had said was true. And I didn't want him to go away altogether. I thought perhaps after all I did love him a little. Oh, I don't know what I thought. But I went upstairs to the windowto look at him coming from the stables—he had ridden over—and to see what he looked like. And Bunting came down from the attic and caught me there, but of course he didn't know what I was doing, and he startled me so much that I flew out at him."
She laughed a little. "Poor darling Bunting!" she said. "I startledhim. I don't think he has ever seen me like that before. But I told him I was sorry afterwards, and he was awfully sweet about it and said it didn't matter a damn. I think he'd have been still more surprised if he'd known what I was there for. Fortunately he wasn't near enough to the window to see Dick.
"Well, then, I was rather miserable, but I was angry too at the way he had spoken to me. Sometimes I was one and sometimes I was the other, and I didn't know whether I cared for him or not. The next morning it had all calmed down rather, and I made up my mind I wouldn't care whether he came back or not, and that if he did I would behave just as I had before, and pretend that nothing had happened. I don't know whether I should have been able to keep that up if he hadn't come to lunch next day. When Jarvis brought up his name I was glad, though I don't think I showed it, did I?"
Caroline reminded her of what she had said, and she smiled and said she thought she had hidden it very well, and by the way he behaved she thought he intended to ignore what had happened too.
"I was a little frightened when you went indoorsand left me alone with him," she said. "But for some time he went on talking as if he had forgotten everything, and I was rather grateful to him, and felt that I did like him very much. He's so strong and—and self-controlled; and I admire strong men, who won't let you play with them. I had had enough of that. I didn't want to play with him any more, and I wanted him to see that I was sorry, without having to say so. So I suppose I was extra nice to him. And I did want him at least as a friend.
"Then suddenly he said something. That's his way—when you're not expecting it. He said perhaps he'd made a mistake about me yesterday, but he didn't think he'd been altogether mistaken. If I didn't love him very much now, he wanted me all the same, and he was sure he could make me happy. Would I marry him and let him try?
"It was the last thing I expected. I didn't know what to say or what to think. Then he said that he shouldn't worry me with love-making until I was ready for it. He said in his quiet deep sort of way, 'When you are, my dear, you'll have all you can want,' and he made me feel, somehow, that perhaps I should come to want it—from him, I mean."
She stopped for a moment as if she were examining herself. "I can't think now what made me say, yes," she said. "I didn't feel in the least like I did when I—when I said yes, before. I think if he had—had kissed me, or treated me as if I had already given him everything, I should have drawn back, perhaps runaway from him. But he just took both my hands, and looked me straight in the face and said: 'Thank you; I promise you that you shall never be sorry for it.' Oh, he is good—and strong. I think I do love him. If you'd seen the look in his eyes! It touched me, and made me want to cry. I think if he had kissed me then, I shouldn't have minded."
"Hasn't he kissed you at all?" Caroline asked. The heaviness of heart which the beginning of the story had brought her had lightened. It would not have been told her in just that way if Beatrix had come to her to ask her help in extricating herself from an impossible position. And yet she had been inclined to think that it had been all a mistake, and had better be ended, for the sake of Beatrix's happiness.
"I'm coming to that, darling. You must let me tell it to you all as it happened."
Caroline kissed her again. As her heart grew lighter, the channels of her love were clearing.
"We went and walked in the garden," Beatrix went on. "We talked about what we would do when we were married—where we should live, and all that. I felt quite pleased and excited. It was something going to happen. I think only one part of me was working. And I felt as if I'd come to anchor. You know, darling, Ihaven'tenjoyed myself this year, as I did last.Thathad spoilt everything for me. I think if I had lived quietly at home, as you have, it might have been different. But I'm rather tired of going about, and rememberingthatall the time. I don't wanthimanylonger—of course. I hate him. But what I thought he was—having somebody all my own who would love me, and I would do all I could to make him happy—I suppose if you've once wanted that you always want it; and a home of your own, and children of your own to love."
"Yes, I know, dearest," said Caroline softly. She was longing to come to the point at which Beatrix might show her that all that, which lies before women made of their clay as the ultimate end of their lives, would come to Beatrix through the only gate which leads to its perfect fulfilment. She had thought at one time that it might be taken by a deliberate choice of a partner, and that the love that would sweeten it might come afterwards. But she thought differently now. Beatrix herself had taught her. That first love of hers, broken off as it had been, had been the right beginning; it would have led her through the only gate. Would this second adventure take her into the right path? If not, she might get much in life that would satisfy her; she would bend herself to it, and the world might not see that she had not all. But it would change her. She would not grow to the full stature of her true womanhood. Secondary things would be put above primary, for primary things would be out of her reach. It was not for such a one as Beatrix to make a merely satisfactory marriage.
The word she had been longing for came sooner than she had expected. "I won't go over it all anymore," Beatrix said. "You saw what I was all last night and all to-day. I thought I should be able to keep it up, but I know now I couldn't have. Sometimes when I have been with him I felt like crying, because he was so matter-of-fact about everything, and I knew he wasn't really feeling like that, but was longing for me to give him a chance of being different. But I remembered what I had done before, and I wasn't sure that I really wanted him to—to make love to me.
"It was when he went away to-night. You know I went to see him out. I think if he had gone as he did last night—just as if we weren't engaged at all—I couldn't have gone on with it, I was feeling so miserable. Perhaps I looked at him in a way that showed him; for he looked at me as he was saying good-night. I saw by his eyes how much he loved me, and he kissed me very gently, on the forehead, and called me something sweet which I won't tell you; and then he went away."
"Oh, darling, I'm so glad," said Caroline. "I know by the way you tell me that it was what you really wanted all the time, wasn't it?"
"I don't know whether I did want it all the time. I know I should have been miserable if he had gone away without. And I wished when I'd gone upstairs that I'd given him something in return, some sign just to show that I didn't want him to go back to that horrid cold talk of to-day and yesterday. Do you think he will? He's not sofrightfullystrong, afterall. I'm sure he never meant to show me what he did. He couldn't keep it under."
Caroline laughed gently at her. "Yes, he is strong," she said, "with the right sort of strength. He wouldn't have shown you that, if you hadn't shown him something first. Oh, darling, you do love him, don't you? You wouldn't be going to marry him if you didn't."
Beatrix didn't answer at once. "I suppose I'm frightened to let myself go," she said. "I did before, and it's as if something had got stopped up in me. I don't feel towards him as I did, and withhim, though I admire and trust him a thousand times more. Will it come, Cara, dear? Can I go on, without doing him harm? He's so good and so fine, heoughtto have somebody who would simply worship him, and think of nobody else; not somebody who has already thought of somebody else, somebody not to be compared with him."
Caroline wouldn't tell her that she thought it would all come. She knew it would, because now she saw that it was already there, though it was struggling for life through the dead waste of a once living but now withered love. "It's what you feel now, darling, that matters," she said. "I think something has been going on in you all the time that you can't recognise, because it's different from what it was."
"Do you think that's it?" she asked rather pathetically. "I hope it is. It isn't that I want allthatto come back, though it did make me very happy whileit lasted. But I don't want to disappoint him. I don't want to give him something, just because I feel like it for the moment, and then take it away again."
"If you give him something because you feel like it—well, that's just what you'll be right in doing, darling. It wouldn't be right to hold it back. If you feel like it at any time, it shows it's there. I'm sure he's worth loving, B."
"Oh, yes, he is. I think I do love him. I know I want him to come back to-morrow."
Those were the words that rang in Caroline's ears when Beatrix had left her, comforted, and assured of her forgiveness for the horrid way in which she had behaved herself towards her. Poor little B! It would all have been so different if this had been the first time she had trodden the happy path of love. She was all softness and sweetness, made to capitulate to a strong man's wooing. But she had been bruised and torn, and there were sensitive places in her which shrank from the lightest touch. Her lover would not get the full response from her until he had taught her not to fear his touch on them.
But she wanted him to come back. Her heart was fluttering out to meet him. Its wings would grow stronger.
He came early the next morning. He had walked the three miles from Wilborough, where breakfast was earlier than at Abington, because any other mode of progression would have brought him there before itwas convenient, and yet he wanted to be moving. Beatrix had gone down the ferny glade towards the gate in the wall that led into the park, not expecting to meet him so soon, but because she also felt it necessary to be in motion, and that was the way he would probably come.
She was close upon the gate when he opened it and came through. His face looked as if it had been suddenly struck with a bright light as he saw her. But he hesitated a moment before he spoke. He was still putting constraint on himself.
She saw the sudden bright look, and the change, and it moved her profoundly. She was rather taken by surprise too, for she had not expected to see him, though she had come down through the park with no other purpose. But she smiled at him and said: "Here I am, you see, waiting for you."
Was it an invitation? He couldn't tell. He had not been prepared for it. He smiled at her in return. "You won't often have to wait for me," he said. "If I had thought you would be out so early I would have motored over."
Then she turned, and they walked slowly back towards the house together. At first both of them were at a loss what to say.
She slipped her hand into his arm. It came natural to her to do so; it was so she walked with her father, and she no longer felt afraid of Dick; He was dependent on her, and he was her friend.
He flushed under his brown skin, and looked downat her. She was not wearing her hat with the broad brim to-day, and he could see her face. Since he had gained her promise he had seen it excited, merry, pleased sometimes, sometimes it had hurt him to think a little frightened, and once, as it had thrilled him all through the night to remember, appealing. But he had not seen it smooth and calm as it was now. The attitude of both of them seemed to be reversed. It was she who was sure of herself, and he who was in perturbation.
"We'll have a long day together," she said. "We'll do whatever you like. Would you like to fish? If so, I'll be your gillie. I often land Dad's fish for him, and I know exactly what to do."
All he said was, "Yes, I should like that," but his voice trembled, and his happiness was almost too much for him. She was offering him that sweet confiding companionship which he had thought he would only attain to through long and troubled effort, when by difficult repression of his strong desires he should have taught her that she might safely give it to him. If he could have it now, offered to him of her own free-will, surely the rest would come! But he could wait; he could wait for a long time if he might have this.
To all outward seeming they might have been married for months, and reached that happy state in which perfect community of taste and understanding doubles the pleasure of any common pursuit, as they followed the stream and tempted the trout in its pools and shallows. Beatrix was as eager and interested asif she had been fishing with her father, and as merry and talkative. He loved her so like that, and was so happy with her that he sometimes forgot how much he loved her. He seemed to forget it altogether when at last he hooked a big fish, and drew it towards the bank, and she was not clever enough in manipulating her landing net. He ordered her about as if she had been a small boy, and rather a stupid one, and when the fish was landed and was lying on the grass with its gills opening and shutting, she burst out laughing. "Ifthat'sthe way you're going to treat me!" she exclaimed.
She looked so adorable, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling, that all his prudent resolves vanished. He caught her and kissed her, just once, and let her go. "That's the way I'm going to treat you," he said, "and you've got to learn to put up with it."
She was taken by surprise. She looked at him, and then she smiled. "I think I shall learn in time," she said.