II
Ima, when the van came Lethamwards, was Percival's first girl friend, and chance had use also in store for her. She was a strange, quiet, very gentle thing, but one that could run, as she had told him, and bold and active stuff for any ramble. With odd ways, though.
"Ima, you do look at me an awful lot," Percival told her in the early days, catching her large eyes fixed upon him.
"Well, thou art not like other boys I see," she told him; and a little while after she asked him, "Dost thou know little ladies with white skins like thine, little master?"
"I'm brown!" said Percival indignantly.
She shook her head. "But little ladies?"
"I know one," said Percival. "White! Well, you'd stare if you saw her, Ima. Snow-White-and-Rose-Red, I call her," and in his tone was something akin to the mingled admiration and awe with which small schoolboys speak of their cricket captain.
She was silent for a moment; then, "Well, tell me, little master," she said.
It was of Dora that he told her.
When Lady Burdon had returned that call paid on her by Mrs. Espart from Abbey Royal she had been as greatly captivated by Dora as she had been taken by Dora's mother. She found in Mrs. Espart a curiously cold and high-bred air that appealed to her—being a quality she was at pains to cultivate in herself—and appealed the more in that it very graciously unbent towards her. Its unbending was explainable by the quality that, for her own part, she presented to Mrs. Espart—that of her rank and station.
Mrs. Espart had been married in her teens, brought from school for the purpose, by a mother whose whole conception of duty in regard to her daughters was wealthy marriage, and who had fastened upon it in this case in the person of Mr. Espart—a nice little man, an indifferently bred little man, but a most obviously well-possessed little man. The girl was hurriedly fetched from her finishing school, whirled through a headachy fortnight of corseting and costuming, and put in Mr. Espart's way and then in his possession with the docility of one educated from childhood for such a purpose. Used as a woman who never had realised there was a life beyond the cloisters bounded by lessons in deportment, in the nice languages and the nice arts; as a wife who never yet had been a child but always a young lady, Mrs. Espart discovered that she was mated with a vulgarian, Mr. Espart that he had married, as he expressed it, "a frozen statue." She thought of him and despised him as the one; he thought of her, feared her, and adored her as the other. The chill she struck into his mind communicated itself in some way to his bones, and very shortly after he had bought Abbey Royal—her command being that he should nurse the local political interests, enrich the Party from his coffers and so win her the social status her sisters had—he began to shrivel and incontinently died—frozen.
Mrs. Espart proceeded to bring up the child born of this marriage precisely as she had herself been brought up,—in narrow cloisters, that is to say, in dutiful obedience and for the ultimate purpose of suitable marriage. She repeated in Dora's training the training she had received from her own mother, its object the same, with this difference—that whereas in her case that object was a wealthy match, in Dora's—Mr. Espart having made wealth unnecessary—it was position. Time was absurdly young for any plans when Mrs. Espart first met Lady Burdon, but plans had crossed her mind when she drove out to leave cards at the Manor: she had heard of Rollo. She made Lady Burdon very welcome when Lady Burdon came.
Dora was two years younger than Rollo, Lady Burdon found. When, on the occasion of this visit, she was brought to the drawing-room—a strikingly pretty child in a curiously unchildish way—she already showed marks of the machinery that ordered her life. She was curiously prim, that is to say, of noticeably trained deportment; curiously self-assured and yet not childishly frank; curiously correct of speech and with a dutiful trick of adding "Mamma" to every sentence she addressed to her mother.
She was her mother's child; similarly trained; similarly developing. "A very well brought-up child," as Lady Burdon afterwards commented to her husband, and noted in her also the strong promise of the beauty that later years were to realise. She was to be notably tall and was already slim and shot-up for her years; she was to be notably fair of complexion and showed already a wonderful mildness and whiteness of skin, curiously heightened by the little flush of colour that warmed in a sharply defined spot on either cheek. Lady Burdon rallied her once during their conversation—the subject was French lessons, which it appeared she found "Terribly puzzling, Lady Burdon, do I not, Mamma?" and her face responded by a curious deepening of the red shades, her cheeks and brow gaining a hue almost of transparency by contrast.
It was that quality and that characteristic that made Percival—meeting her when she was brought over to tea with Rollo—call her, as he told Ima, Snow-White-and-Rose-Red.
The name was from his fairy book, and to his mind fitted exactly this fragile and well-behaved and reserved Miss who he thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It fitted her more surely yet when he came to know her when she was fourteen and just returned, Rollo also having come to the Manor, for her first holidays from the highly exclusive school to which she was sent.
By then the friendship between Lady Burdon and Mrs. Espart had grown to closest intimacy. They met, and Dora and Rollo met, intimately in London; and Abbey Royal was rarely closed when Burdon Old Manor was opened. Mrs. Espart had suffered to lapse that attitude towards the little post office boy which Lady Burdon had termed "ridiculous." She never liked, and certainly never encouraged, Percival, but she accepted him as undetachable from Rollo, whom by now she encouraged greatly in friendship with Dora, and it was thus that Dora at rare intervals contributed to these days of the happy, happy time.
At fourteen she was actively advanced in her first term at the exclusive school by the machine that was shaping her. Strikingly now she promised, as always she had hinted, what should be hers when full maidenhood was hers. The singular fairness of her complexion was the grace that first struck the observer; and with it was to be noticed immediately the curious shade on either cheek that flushed to a warm redness when she was animated, and, flushing sharply within its limitations, sharply threw into relief the transparent fairness of her skin. Her head, small and most shapely, was poised with the light and perfect balance of a flower on its stem. Her features were small, proportioned as a sculptor would chisel the classic face—having the straight nose, the delicate nostrils, and the short upper lip of high beauty. Her eyes were well-opened, strangely dark for her fair colouring, well-lit, with the light and shade and softness of dew on a dark pansy when the sun first challenges the flowers at daybreak. Her abundant hair, soberly dressed in a soft plait that reached her waist, was of a dull gold that in some lights went to burnished brass. She was poised upon her feet with the flower-grace of her head upon her throat. She was of such a quality and an air that you might believe the very winds would divide to give her passage, afraid to touch and haply soil so rare a thing.
Percival in these days went beyond even his first wonder at her. He had never believed there could be such a beautiful thing, and at their meetings he was very shy—regarding her with an admiration that was very apparent in his manner. He, certainly, if not the winds, had in her presence a feeling of necessity to be gentle with so rare and strange a thing. He could class her nowhere except with Snow-White-and-Rose-Red; and to him that was her meetest class—belonging to a different race and to be indulged as an honoured guest should be; permitted to have caprices; expected to be strange.
She came occasionally to tea at the Old Manor. The boys would take her then for a walk in the grounds—sometimes further afield. Percival, never free from the wonder she caused in him, always had much concern for her on these occasions. He constantly inquired if they were not going too far for her; he would always propose they should turn back if they came to a muddy lane. It happened once that a lane desperate in mud could not be avoided. He showed her the drier path against the hedge, but this was so narrow as to require some balancing to keep it.
"You must hold my hand," he said.
To shake hands with her had always been a matter of some diffidence. Now he was to support her while she picked her way. He took her little gloved hand in his. It lay warmly within his grasp; and concerned lest he should hurt so delicate a thing, he let it rest in his palm, passing his fingers about her wrist where there was bone to feel.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said. "I'm trying not to—and not to splash"—and he trod carefully, above his boot soles in the mire.
She told him: "You're not, thank you. These lanes are wretched. I hate them."
Much of her weight was on him. There was a perfume about her person, and it came to him pleasantly: he had never walked so close to her before. The soft plait of her hair was about her further shoulder, hanging down her breast. With her free hand she held her skirt raised and closely against her legs for fear of brambles in the hedge. Percival looked at her daintily-shod feet, picking their way, and he gave a funny little laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" she asked him.
"My boots—and yours. You must have funny little feet."
She half withdrew her hand.
"I think you are the rudest boy I have ever met," she said.
"Oh, I didn't mean to be rude," Percival declared.
She told him in her precise way: "You are rude, although you are nice in some ways. I think I have never known any one stare at me so frightfully as you stare. I have seen you often staring."
Percival gave for explanation: "If I stare, it's because I've never seen any one like you."
She gave the slightest toss of her chin.
He went on: "Do you know what I call you? I call you Snow-White-and-Rose-Red."
He saw the blush shades on her cheek very slightly darken. It sounded a pleasant thing to be called. But she said: "It sounds stupid; what is it?"
"From a fairy tale. Don't you know it?"
"I don't care about reading."
"What do you like doing best of all?"
"I think I like going for drives—and that;" she half slipped and added, "I simply hate this."
"I've got you perfectly safe," Percival assured her.
She said nothing to that, either of doubt or thanks; and they finished the lane in silence. But when dry ground was reached and she withdrew her hand, she thanked him prettily. With Rollo—who had no wonder of her and whom she saw more frequently—she was on easy terms; and now the three walked back to the Old Manor more companionably than was usual with them. When Dora left, she surprised Percival by thanking him again; she surprised him more by showing him a little mark on her hand he had held and playfully protesting his grasp had caused it. Thereafter when they met she had a smile for him.
He liked that.
She came to be very frequently in his mind, though why he did not know. Once he came to Aunt Maggie with a dream he had had of her. "The rummiest dream, Aunt Maggie. I dreamt I was chasing her, and chasing her, and calling her: 'Snow-White! Snow-White! Rose-Red! Rose-Red!' and every time I nearly caught her Rollo came up and caught hold of me, and away she went. And fancy! I fought Rollo! Aren't dreams absurd?"
Aunt Maggie put her hand to her forehead. "Was that the end, dear?"
"Why, the end was more absurd than ever. Although I tried, I couldn't hit Rollo—simply couldn't. He hurt me, but I couldn't do anything, and he threw me down and went off with Dora. Doesn't it show how ridiculous dreams are? Fancy dear old Rollo being stronger than me! Is your head hurting, Aunt Maggie?"
"Just a shoot of pain—it's gone now."
While he described his dream, and while she pictured it, one of those flutterings had run up violently in her brain. It passed, but left its influence. "Absurd!" she agreed. "If ever you did quarrel with him—"
Percival laughed. "I never could, in any case."
"Are you very fond of him, Percival?"
Rollo was returning to London that day. "I simply hate his going away," Percival said. "I wish to goodness he lived here always. He wishes it, too."
BURDON HOUSE LEASED: THE OLD MANOR OCCUPIED
I
It happened that within a very short time of that wish it was granted. Burdon House in Mount Street was let; Burdon Old Manor was permanently occupied.
This began in a visit that Lady Burdon, very decidedly out of temper, paid to Mr. Pemberton at the office in Bedford Row. Relations between Lady Burdon and the little old lawyer had radically altered since that occasion of their first meeting at Miller's Field. Mr. Pemberton, who in these years had relinquished to his son all the business save the cherished Burdon affairs, had long been aware that the misgivings which had clouded his first happy impression of Lady Burdon had been the juster estimate of her character. He had perceived the dominance she exercised over her indulgent husband; he had accepted, after what protest he dared, that the management of the estate was in her hands. He had foreseen the fruits of the wilfulness of a woman thrown out of balance by the sudden acquisition of place and possessions; it was because these fruits were now being plucked that he preferred to keep the Burdon affairs in his own hands. He could not bear the thought of handing over to his son this honoured trust in shape that would cause a lifting of the eyebrows: "Father, I've been going through the Burdon papers. I say, they seem in a precious bad way ... I don't understand...."
He could not endure the thought of that.
On this day when Lady Burdon came angrily—and defiantly—to Bedford Row, the position was raised very acutely between them.
"I know—I know," Mr. Pemberton was saying. "But, Lady Burdon, you must perceive the possibility—nay, in the circumstances, the extreme probability—that though Lord Burdon countenances in the smallest particular all you find it necessary to spend—and on the property not to spend—he yet may not appreciate the state of affairs—the imperative necessity that a halt be called. I have written to him frequently. The replies come from you."
She parted her lips to speak, but he had already had sufficient taste of her mood to make him hasten with: "I know. I know. Lord Burdon has told us both that he hates business and that he likes to encourage you in the pleasure you find in it. That is admitted, Lady Burdon. We have no quarrel there. My point is—how far is Lord Burdon to be suffered to indulge his dislike? how long is he to be kept in ignorance? I think no longer. That is why I purpose making a call on him. I purpose it, again, because I believe Lord Burdon's influence—when he understands—may join with mine to move you, where mine alone causes you annoyance."
He indicated the papers that littered the table. "You see the position. I tell you again—I tell you with all the seriousness of which I am capable—that the crash is as near to you as I am near to you sitting here. I tell you that it is not to be averted unless for a period—a mere few years—Burdon House is given up. It will let immediately on a short lease. There, alone, will be more than relief—assistance. It will save you much that you now find necessary—there is the relief of the whole situation."
She broke out: "It would never have come to this but for the cost of this irrigation scheme on the Burdon property. That is your doing—yours and Mr. Maxwell's. I tell you again I was amazed—amazed when I heard of it."
"And I have reminded you, Lady Burdon, that when I approached you in the matter you desired not to be troubled with it. I had often and often urged it upon you. This time you said it was to be left entirely to our discretion—Maxwell's and mine."
"I shall repudiate the contract. The work is not begun. You can get out of it as best you can."
He said very quietly, "That is open to you—of course." He paused and she did not speak, and he went on. "You would have no case, I think. The authority is too clear. But I do not mind saying I would try to get out of the contract or—. Our firm could not be involved in a lawsuit against the house we have served these generations." He dropped his voice and said more to himself than to her: "No—no. Never that!" He looked up at her and assumed a cheerful note: "You have to think of your son, you know, Lady Burdon. What is he to come into? This irrigation scheme will be the making of the property—the land cries for it. If you can cut off the Burdon House establishment for a few years, young Mr. Rollo will have reason to bless you when in process of time he assumes the title. If you decide—"
She rose abruptly: "I must be going."
Mr. Pemberton hobbled after her down the stairs to attend her to her carriage. A bitter wind was blowing. The coachman was walking the horses up and down. The footman who waited in the doorway, rugs on arm, ran into the street and beckoned to him. Lady Burdon watched the carriage, tapping her foot on the ground and frowning impatiently. A large piece of pink paper came blowing down the pavement, somersaulting along in a ridiculous fashion—heels over head, heels over head, grotesquely like a performing tumbler.
"Cold!" said Mr. Pemberton, briskly, rubbing his hands together. "Very cold!"
She made no reply. She was much out of temper. She was considerably beset. She was stiffening with an angry determination against abandoning her life in town. She was freshly aroused against Mr. Pemberton for his devoted loyalty to her husband's house—he had stung her by the manner of his acceptance of her threat to repudiate the contract; and by his reference to Rollo—he had hit her there.
The tumbling paper—a newspaper contents bill she could see—flung itself flat a few yards from them, throwing out its upper corners as it came to rest, for all the world like an exhausted tumbler throwing out his arms. The carriage drew up.
With a foot on the step: "You need not call on Lord Burdon till I have written to you—to arrange a date," she said.
Mr. Pemberton replied: "I certainly will not. I will await your letter, Lady Burdon."
She settled herself in her seat, drawing her furs about her. He was certainly a doddering old figure as he stood there—shrunken in the face, bent in the body, his few white hairs tumbled in the wind.
"Your house is very dear to me, Lady Burdon," he went on. "You must believe I act only in your best interests—in what I believe to be—"
She nodded to the footman, turned towards her from the box, and the carriage began to move. The tumbler contents bill leapt up with an absurd scurry, somersaulted down to them, and flung itself flat with a ridiculous air of exhaustion.
"Tragedy in the House of Lords," she read idly, and drove away.
II
Lady Burdon drove straight home. She arrived to be apprised she was concerned in the "Tragedy in the House of Lords" that the tumbler bill had brought somersaulting down the street. As the carriage drew up, a maid hurried down the steps and gave her the news: "His lordship"—the girl was scared and breathless—"His lordship, my lady—taken ill in the House of Lords—fell out of his seat in a faint—brought him home in Lord Colwyn's carriage—carried him up-stairs, my lady—fainted or—a doctor is with him, my lady."
Lady Burdon wrestled with the confused sentences, staring at the girl, not moving. "Fainted or—"
She threw back the rug from about her lap and sprang from the carriage. A newsboy rushing down the street almost ran into her, and she had to stand aside to give him passage. Her eye caught the pink bill fluttering against him where he held it: "Tragedy in the House of Lords."
God! The tragedy was here. She ran swiftly up the steps and up the stairs. At the door of Lord Burdon's room terror leapt at her like a live thing so that she staggered back a step and could not turn the handle. "Fainted or—?" She caught her hand to her bosom, her poor heart beat so. She had a vision of him dead, being carried up the steps. There flashed with it a vision that showed him tired after lunch and her saying: "If you knew how elegant you look, lounging there! You ought to go to the House. You never go. You can sleep there;" and he saying, "Right-o, old girl."
Sleep there? Had she driven him to die there? Fainted or—?
She entered the room. A man wearing a frock-coat stood by the dressing-table. She stared, and stared beyond him to the bed. She put her hand to her throat and strangled out the word "Maurice!" The man turned to her and began to speak. She ran past him and flung herself beside the bed and took Lord Burdon's hand and pressed it to her face. She burst into a terrible sobbing, raining tears upon the hand she held. From the threshold she had seen the eyes open, the faint twist of a smile of greeting upon the white, pained face.
Alive! That was sufficient! For the moment, in the first agony of her distress, she required nothing more. Between the recovery from her first shock at the news, and the terror that had held her back when she reached his door, remorse, like bellows at the forge, quicked her every memory of him to burning irons within her. Happen what might, she was to be suffered to slake their torture.
She felt the hand she held move in her grasp. It was his signal of response to her sympathy. He said very weakly, in an attempt at the old tone: "Made an—awful ass—of—myself, old—girl." He groaned and breathed: "O God! Pain—pain!"
She would not speak to the doctor. She desired nothing but to be left there holding that hand, feeling it move for her and pressing it against her face that was buried upon it when it moved. She desired to be told nothing, to do nothing. This was between him and her—let them be left to it while yet they could be left! A procession of pictures was marching through her mind. In each she saw herself in a scene of her neglect of him or her impatience with him. She had the feeling that while she might hold that hand and feel it move, each picture would pass—atoned for, forgiven, erased. This was between him and her—let them be left to it while yet they could be left!
Movements, the opening and closing of the door, whispering voices, came to her. Some one touched her. She shook herself at the touch and crouched lower. This was between him and her!—for pity's sake!—if you have pity, let us be left to it while yet we can be left!
The movements continued. They seemed to be closing about her—impatiently waiting for her. They began to force themselves upon her attention so that her mind must leave its pictures and distinguish them. She crouched lower ... if you have pity! She heard stiff rustlings and fancied a nurse was in the room. She heard a heavier step and presently felt a touch that seemed to command obedience.
She raised her head—A nurse, the man she had first seen, another man—older. He pointed at the figure on the bed and motioned with his head towards the door. Maurice seemed to sleep. She rose with a little shuddering gasp and looked at them, twisting her hands together—if they had pity! ... what did they require of her?
The older man was bending over the bed, whispering with the younger. The nurse came to her, smiling gently, and nodded towards him: "Sir Mervyn Aston. He will speak to you outside. Will you not leave us just a moment? Quite all right."
She remembered the name. It was the specialist Maurice had sometimes consulted. She had not bothered much about it: but she remembered the name. Sir Mervyn looked towards her and moved across the room. She looked again at the bed. The nurse nodded brightly. She followed Sir Mervyn to the door.
"Down-stairs," he said, and trod heavily down before her. He was a great man and took the privilege of bad manners. In the library he turned to her: "Did you send for me?" She had not expected that. She had expected sympathy—at least information. She stared at him, momentarily surprised out of her grief. His face was stern; she believed his manner accused her.
"No," she said.
"You expected this?"
Expected it! Of what could he be thinking?
"I've told Lord Burdon repeatedly that this life—I've warned him again and again to get out of it. Hasn't he told you?"
Now she knew that he was accusing her. She never had cared to listen when Maurice told her he had been to Harley Street. She stood twisting her hands together, nervous before this brusque man.
"Hasn't he told you?"
"No."
He looked sharply at her. He was a great man and had learned to read between the lines that his fashionable patients presented him. "A pity," he said briefly. "This might have been averted for many years."
"Tell me"—she said, and could say no more: "tell me—"
His tone became a little kinder. "We must hope for the best, you know. There is always that. I will look in again at midnight. They are making him quite comfortable up-stairs."
He said a little more that she did not catch. Presently she realised that he had left her. "This might have been averted for many years!" She ran to a bureau and fumbled frantically for pen and paper. She was in a sudden panic to do one thing that she believed would soften that dreadful sentence if the worst came. She was in a panic to get it done before there might be a sound from above and a horrid running down the stairs. She found her writing materials. Pen in hand she listened, trembling violently. No sound! As quickly as she could write she scrawled to Mr. Pemberton: "I have decided. We are going to Burdon Old Manor at once. Make arrangements to let the house, please."
Whatever happened now, she had begun her share of the bargain she prayed to press on death. If death would spare him, she would devote her life to him!
As she was sealing the letter Rollo came in. He had been to a matinee with Mrs. Espart and Dora, at home for her holidays. Lady Burdon gave a little motherly cry at the sight of him and took him in her arms.
They went up-stairs together.
The doctor had gone. The nurse told her Lord Burdon was asleep; but when she went to her former position on her knees beside the bed and took his hand again, he opened his eyes and his eyes smiled at her; and then closed; he seemed desperately weary.
She did not cry now. There was this bargain to be forced on death; and, as with the letter, so now with her promises, she was in a panic to get them done, believing that if death—God, as she named it—might know all she offered to pay, he must accept the price and hold his hand.
She was not the first that has believed death—or heaven—is open to a deal.
Through the long evening she knelt there, Rollo with her. Thus and thus she promised—thus and thus would she do—thus and thus—thus and thus! Mostly she bargained, frantically reiterating. At intervals she would turn to protest—protesting that her sin was very light for so heavy a threat. What had she done? She had done no wrong. She had no flagrant faults—she was serenely good, as goodness is judged. She was devout—she was charitable. Only one little failing, heaven! She had desired to enjoy herself, and enjoying herself had neglected him. But he did not care for the things she liked. Indeed he did not! He was happiest when she was happy. Indeed he was! Yet she saw the error of her way. If he might be spared, heaven—thus and thus—thus and thus—thus and thus!
Physical weariness overcame her as she heaped her promises, leading her mind astray and tricking it into nightmare dreams whence she would struggle with trembling limbs. The dreams took gross or strange forms. She would be running down the street pursued by the tumbler contents-bill, somersaulting behind. It caught her and fell flat, flinging out its armlike corners, and she saw it was Maurice. She stooped to him, and it was the bill again, gone from her on the wind. She pursued it, and saw it take semblance of Maurice, and pursued it with stumbling feet and could not catch it.
She struggled from these horrors and found her mind again. She was intensely cold, she found. Sir Mervyn had come and was bending over her husband. Sir Mervyn nodded to her and sat down by the bed. She dared ask no questions. She crouched lower where she knelt. The night went on—Sir Mervyn still there. She prayed on—thus and thus! thus and thus! She was tricked into the nightmare dreams. She was with Rollo's friend, Percival, and running to Rollo, who seemed in distress. A woman stopped them. She recognised in her the girl who had come with that claim to be Lady Burdon years before. The girl caught Percival and held him and Percival held her. She struggled to be free, for Rollo was calling her wildly. His cries grew louder, louder, louder, and burst as a real cry suddenly upon her.
"Mother! Mother!"
She started up. Rollo was on his feet, bending towards his father.
"Lift! Lift!" Lord Burdon murmured.
Sir Mervyn raised him. She clutched his hand. He rallied upon the strength of life's last pulse and flutter, and smiled, and murmured, "Poor old girl!"
Then she saw death come; and she turned and threw her arms about her son.
BOOK OF STORMS AND OF THREATENING STORM.THE ELEMENT OF LOVE
PLANS AND DREAMS AND PROMISES
I
Three women were counting the years now. The years were rolling up—curtain by curtain, like mists from a distant hillside; and behind them the ultimate prospects for which Lady Burdon waited, Mrs. Espart waited, and Aunt Maggie waited began to be revealed. Mrs. Espart had conveyed to Lady Burdon her ambition—formulated long ago—with regard to Dora and Rollo. Lady Burdon reckoned the union as very desirable and gave its consummation a first place among her aspirations for her Rollo. Aunt Maggie saw the hour of her revenge approaching so that its years might now be estimated on the fingers of one hand.
So near the desirable ends were approaching that the women began to name dates for their arrival. Youth, with only a few years lived and so enormous an experience gained in those years (as youth believes), cannot endure the thought of planning ahead for a space that is a fair proportion of its whole lifetime. Five years is a monstrous, an insupportable period to youth that has lived but four times five or less. Age, with fewer years to live than have been lived, and with the knowledge of how little a decade has to show, will plan for five years hence with nothing near so much of sighs and groanings as youth will suffer if it must wait five months.
The women began to name dates. Those very close friends, Lady Burdon and Mrs. Espart, spoke of dates frequently. Mrs. Espart and Dora had already "come into the family" as Mrs. Espart smilingly expressed it, when, at Lord Burdon's death, and on being acquainted with her dear friend's intention to let the Mount Street house on a short lease and retire to Burdon Old Manor, she had offered herself as lessee. The offer had been most gratefully, most gladly accepted. The great town house was made over to Mrs. Espart for a seven years' term and thus, in Mrs. Espart's phrase, "remained in the family"—ready for Rollo and Dora, as the ladies plotted.
And now they were naming dates. "When Rollo is twenty-four," Lady Burdon said to Mrs. Espart, come over from Abbey Royal to lunch at the Manor one day, "look, dear, he is just on twenty now. You know my plans. Next year he is to go to Cambridge. His illness has thrown him back. But next year will be time enough. Three years at Cambridge, then, and that will bring him almost to twenty-three. Then I wish him to go abroad—to travel for a year. That is so good for a young man, I think. Then when he comes back he will be ready to settle down and he will come back just the age for that tradition of ours—celebrating comings-of-age at twenty-four instead of twenty-one. That would be so splendid for the wedding, wouldn't it?"
"Splendid!" Mrs. Espart agreed. "Splendid! That old Mr. Amber of yours was trying to tell me the other day how that twenty-four tradition arose. But, really, he mumbles so when he gets excited—!"
"Oh, he's hopeless," Lady Burdon agreed. Her tone dismissed his name as though she found his hopelessness a little trying, and she went back to "Yes, splendid, won't it be? When I look back, Ella, everything has gone wonderfully. From the very beginning, you know—the very beginning, I planned a good marriage for Rollo. It was so essential. To be your Dora—well, that makes it perfect; yes, perfect!"—and Lady Burdon stretched out her hands and gave a happy little sigh as though she put her hands into a happy future and touched her Rollo there.
"And I for Dora," Mrs. Espart said. "From the very beginning, too, I arranged great matches for Dora in my mind. That it should be your Rollo,"—she gave a little laugh at her adaptation of the words—"that it should be your Rollo—why, really, perfect is the word!"
They were silent for a space, enjoying the beauty of the hillside that the thinning years were disclosing.
"You've never said anything to Rollo?" Mrs. Espart asked.
"Oh, no—no, not directly, anyway. It will come about naturally, I feel that. They are so much together. And in any case Dora—Dora is so wonderfully beautiful, Ella. I couldn't conceive any man not falling in love with her. In a year or so's time, developing as she is—why, you'll change your mind perhaps—when they're all worshipping her!"
She laughed, and her laugh was very reassuringly returned. "But it is Rollo she will marry," Mrs. Espart smiled. "With her it is as you say with him—it will come naturally. In any case—well, she is being brought up as I was brought up. She is dutiful. You find so many girls encouraged in independence nowadays. Nothing is so harmful for a girl ultimately, I think."
Lady Burdon nodded her agreement. "How happy Rollo will be!" she said, and spoke with a little sigh so caressingly maternal and with eyes so fondly beaming that Mrs. Espart put out a hand to touch her and told her, "I love your devotion to Rollo, Nellie."
"He is everything to me," Lady Burdon said softly. "Everything!"
"I know he is. Why, you look different again when you speak of him even! Do you know, you were looking wretchedly ill when I came this morning, I thought."
"I had slept badly." Lady Burdon looked hesitatingly at her friend as though doubtful of the expediency of some further words she meditated. Then, "I had my nightmare," she said; and at the question framed on Mrs. Espart's lips went on impulsively: "Ella, I've never told you about my nightmare. I think I shall. It worries me. Do you know, just after we came into the title a girl came to see me and said she was the former Lord Burdon's wife."
"No! What happened?"
"Oh, nothing, of course—nothing serious. I sent her away. She said she would bring proofs; but I never saw her again."
"You wouldn't, of course. One of those creatures, I suppose," and Mrs. Espart curled her lip distastefully and added: "I suppose some young men will do those things—no doubt that's what it was; but it's rather disgusting, isn't it? And how very horrible for you! But, Nellie, where does the nightmare come in?"
"With the girl," Lady Burdon said and gave a little uneasy movement as though even the recollection worried her. "With the girl. I dream of her whenever—that's the odd thing—whenever something particular happens. See her just as I saw her then and say 'I am Lady Burdon,' and she says 'Oh, how can you be Lady Burdon?' Then I get that dreadful nightmare feeling—you know what it is—and say 'I hold!' and she says 'No, you do not—Nay, I hold!' It's too silly—but you know what nightmares are. And it only comes when something particular happens—or rather is going to happen. The night before we heard of old Lady Burdon's death, that was once. Then the night before we came down here for that stay when Rollo met his friend Percival and we began to come regularly. Then the night my husband died." She stopped, smiled because Mrs. Espart was smiling at her indulgently, as one smiles at another's unreasonable fears, but went on, "and now last night!"
Mrs. Espart laughed outright: "Why, what a hollow moan, Nellie!—'and now last night!' I'd no idea you were such a goose. You've let the silly thing get on your silly nerves."
"Only because things have always happened with it."
Her concern, however foolish, was clearly so genuine that Mrs. Espart changed banter for sympathetic reassurance. "Why, Nellie, really you must be more sensible! Why, dreaming it last night proves how silly it is. What's happened to-day? Look, I'll tell you what's happened to-day, and it's something to settle your wretched girl and your omens once and for all. She nightmared you last night and to-day we've settled how happy we are all going to be with our young folk married! There! Tell her that with my compliments if she ever comes again!"
Her air was so brisk and stimulating that Lady Burdon was made to laugh; and her facts were so convincing that the laugh was followed by a little sigh of happiness, and Lady Burdon said: "Why, Ella, it's funny, isn't it, how in this life some thingsdogo just as one wishes, for all that people say to the contrary?"
That was to be proved. Down at "Post Offic," while the ladies planned, a date was also being named.
II
"But when? When?" Percival was saying to Aunt Maggie. "I'm eighteen—eighteen, but you still treat me like a child. I ought to be doing something. I'm just growing up an idler that every one will soon be despising. But when I tell you, you ask me to wait and say I've no need to be anxious and that I shall be glad I waited when I know what it is you are planning for me."
"You will be, Percival," Aunt Maggie said.
But he made an impatient gesture and cried again: "But when? When? That satisfied me when I was a boy. It doesn't now. I'm not a boy any longer. That's what you don't seem to see."
That indeed he was boy no more was written very clearly upon him as he stood there demanding his future—not for the first time in these days. He was past his eighteenth birthday: his bearing and his expression graced him with a maturer air. The mould and the poise of head and body that as a child had caused a turning of heads after him were displayed with a tenfold greater attraction now that they adorned the frame of early manhood. There was about the modelling of his countenance that air of governance that is the first mark of high breeding. The outlines and the finish of his face were extraordinarily firm, as though delicate tools had cut them in firm wax that set to marble as each line was done. The chin was rounded from beneath and thrown forward; and to that firm upward round the lower jaw ran in a fine oval from where the small ears lay closely against the head; deeply beneath the jaw, cut cleanly back with an uncommon sweep, was set the powerfully modelled throat that denotes rare physical strength. The eyes were widely opened, of a fine grey—unusually large and of a quality of light that seemed to diffuse its rays over all the brow. The forehead was wide, with a clear, sound look. Outdoor life had tinted the face with the clean brown that only a fine skin will take; the hair was of a tawny hue and pressed closely to the scalp. He was of good height and he carried his trunk as though it were balanced on his hips—thrown up from the waist into a deep chest beneath powerful shoulders. He held his arms slightly away from his sides in the fashion of sailors and boxers whose arms are quick, tough weapons. After all this and of it all was a gay, alert air, as though he were ever poised to spring away at the call of the first adventure that came whistling down the road. His face was not often in repose. Ardent life was forever footing it merrily up and down his veins, delighting in motion and in its strength, and his face was the mirror of its discoveries.
Just now, voiced in his "I'm growing up an idler that every one will soon be despising," it was discovering restrictions that his brow mirrored darkly. "It's not fair to me, Aunt Maggie," he said. "I ought to be doing something for myself. I must be doing something for myself. But you put me off like a child. You tell me to wait and won't even tell me what it is. You tell me to wait—when? when?"
Aunt Maggie said pleadingly: "Soon, Percival, soon."
"No, I've heard that—I've heard that!" he cried. "I want to know when."
She named her date. "When you are of age, dear. When you are twenty-one."
He cried: "Three years! Go on like this for three years more!"
He swung on his heel and she watched him go tremendously down the path and through the gate.
FEARS AND VISIONS AND DISCOVERIES
I
Percival took the highroad with the one desire to be alone—to walk far and to walk fast. The prodding of his mind that goaded him, "I'm growing—I'm losing time—I'm settling into a useless idler!" that tortured him he was in apron-strings and likely to remain there, produced a feverish desire to use all his muscles till he tired them. His feet beat the time—"I must do something—Imustdo something!" and he swung them savagely and at their quickest. It was not sufficient. He was extraordinarily fit and hard; the level road, despite he footed it at his fiercest, could scarcely quicken his breathing. A mile from "Post Offic" he struck off to his right and breasted the Down, climbing its steepness with an energy that at last began to moisten his body and to give him the desired feeling that his strength was being exercised. "I must do something!" he spoke aloud. "I must—I can't go on like this—I won't!" and taxed his limbs the harder. If he must feel the chains that bound him in idleness, let him at least make mastery of his body and rebuke it till it wearied.
At the crest of Plowman's Ridge he paused and drew breath and turned his face to the wind that ever boomed along here and that had come to be an old friend that greeted his ears with its jovial, gusty Ha! Ha! Ha!
Far below him he could see "Post Offic" with its garden running to the wood. From his distance it had the appearance of a toy house enclosed by a toy hedge, the toy trees of the wood rigid and closely clipped like the painted absurdities of a child's Noah's Ark. As he looked, a tiny figure came from the house and went a pace or two up the garden and seemed to stand and stare towards him up the Ridge. Aunt Maggie, he was sure, and had a sudden wave of tenderness towards her, looking so tiny and forlorn down there. He remembered with a prick at heart that, even in the heat of his anger in the parlour half-an-hour ago, he had noticed how small she looked as she stood pathetically before him, gently replying to his impatience. He thought to wave to her with his handkerchief, but knew she could not see him. He remembered—and another prick was there—that she had said, seeking, no doubt, to win a moment from his violence, "Do you see my eyeglasses, dear? I'm getting so shortsighted, Percival." He flushed to recollect he had disregarded her words and had threshed ahead with his "It's not fair to me—not fair to me, keeping me here doing nothing!" He had been unkind—he was unkind—and she was so small, so gentle, so loving, so tender to his every mood.
But that very thought of her—how small she was, how gentle—that had begun to abate his warring mood, returned him suddenly to its conflicts. That was just it!—so small, so gentle, so different from him in every way that she could not understand his situation and could not be reasoned with. No one understood! No one seemed to realise how he was growing, and how blank the future, and hence what he was growing. They all laughed at him when he spoke of it.
They all laughed! Mr. Purdie laughed—Mr. Purdie had laughed and said, "Oh, you're not a man yet, Percival!" and had given his absurd, maddening chuckle.
"His silly, damned chuckle!" cried Percival to old friend wind at the top of a wilder burst of resentment against the world in general and for the moment against Mr. Purdie in particular.
Rollo laughed—Rollo had laughed and declared: "Oh, don't start on that, Percival! That'll be all right when the time comes."
"When the time comes! Good lord! The time has come," Percival told old friend wind. "It's slipping past every day. All very well for old Rollo—all cut and dried for him. For me! I'm to be idling here when he goes to Cambridge, am I? And idling like a great lout when he comes back!"
Lady Burdon laughed—they all laughed, thinking him foolish, not realising. Ah, they would laugh in another way—and rightly so—when they did realise, when they saw him standing among them idle, useless, helpless, dependent on Aunt Maggie. They would all laugh—they would all despise him then. Everybody....