"NIGHT TIMEHe glanced as he passed,And I hope, and I quiver,I howl and I shudder with pains;And like a she-tigerOr overcharged river,My blood rushes on through my veins."
"NIGHT TIME
He glanced as he passed,And I hope, and I quiver,I howl and I shudder with pains;And like a she-tigerOr overcharged river,My blood rushes on through my veins."
She stopped suddenly.
"No, no, dear. I won't read this. Wait a minute. I remember now that was the one that was returned because it was too—er——I'll find you another one."
"Oh, do finish that one," said Daphne, "please! Isn't the light too much for your eyes?"
She jumped up quickly and pulled down the blind an inch or two, and then came back, having controlled herself.
Mrs. Foster looked at her rather sharply, and took no notice of what she supposed was emotion.
"Ah, here is something more suited to you,darling."
SPRINGA Question, and an AnswerWill all the year be summer-time,And each night have a moon?Ah no, the Spring will quickly go,And winter cometh soon.And will your clasp warm mine like wine?And will you love me true?Ah no, the autumn leaves arrive,And we must bid adieu.
SPRING
A Question, and an Answer
Will all the year be summer-time,And each night have a moon?Ah no, the Spring will quickly go,And winter cometh soon.
And will your clasp warm mine like wine?And will you love me true?Ah no, the autumn leaves arrive,And we must bid adieu.
"That's a rather pretty thing, in its way, isn't it?" she said.
"Very."
"Here's one more.
A REMEMBRANCESeems it well to seeA wild honey beeGold in the sun,Ere day is done,Sitting on a rose,As the summer time grows.Ah, the bold, brave days,Ere the glass of Time'Neath the sun's rays,Like a flame of fire,—And the..."
A REMEMBRANCE
Seems it well to seeA wild honey beeGold in the sun,Ere day is done,Sitting on a rose,As the summer time grows.
Ah, the bold, brave days,Ere the glass of Time'Neath the sun's rays,Like a flame of fire,—And the..."
She stopped again.
"No, I don't think this is quite——"
"Do, do go on!"
Mrs. Foster looked at her.
"You have a great deal of sensibility, Daphne. I believe you have tears in your eyes."
"No, I haven't really." She turned away her head, nearly choking.
A loud knock was heard at the front door.
Mrs. Foster looked out of the window.
"It's Cyril!" she exclaimed. "He's got away after all. Quick! Quick!" She threw the bookunder a cushion and sat on it. With trembling fingers she took up some needlework out of a basket.
"Not a word—not a word! Go and meet him in the hall, dear. He's come to give us a surprise. I'll wait."
Blushing and laughing Daphne ran downstairs.
Daphne and Cyril sat in the garden together. The conditions seemed ideal. It was a lovely afternoon; the sun was hot, but a gay irresponsible little west wind stirred the trees; bees hummed industriously, butterflies darted casually about among the few flowers, and even the reticent doves cooed from time to time, condescendingly. Peeping through the blind Mrs. Foster thought the two young people made a perfect picture, and was reminded of the Golden Age. Indeed, they had very much the charming, almost improbable air of the figures in a Summer Number of an illustrated paper. Perhaps the conditions were too perfect: the lovers had, of course, nothing to sit on but a rustic seat—Mrs. Foster would have thought it a crime to have anything else in a garden, and rustic seats are, no doubt, picturesque, but they are very uncomfortable; they seem to consist of nothing but points and knobs, gnarls and corners.
When Daphne was alone with Cyril like this she felt contented and peaceful at first, and then she began to wonder why she wasn't happier still—why she didn't feel ecstatic. She was proud of Cyril; he looked very handsome in flannels, his regular features, smooth fair hair, small head and small feet all added to his resemblance to the hero in the holiday number.
Cyril said—
"Dear little girl!" and took her hand.
She laughed and answered—
"Dear old boy!"
Then he said—
"By Jove! you do look ripping, Daphne."
She smiled.
"Jolly being here like this, isn't it?" said Cyril.
"Isn't it?" she answered.
"Jolly day, too."
"Yes."
"Wasn't it lucky I was able to get away?"
"Rather."
"It was a fearful rush."
"It must have been."
"Jove, it is hot!"
There was a pause.
"Darling!"
"Dear boy!"
"May I smoke a cigarette, dear?"
"Yes, do."
He lit a cigarette, and then put his arm round her waist.
"Don't, Cyril."
"Why not?" he asked, removing it.
"Oh, I don't know. Henry or some one might see."
"What's Henry?"
"A sort of gardener boy—the boy whose sort of sister makes kind of blouses in the village."
"Oh, does he matter?"
Cyril was wondering if he could ask for a drink.
When they were left entirely alone, on purpose to be free, he always felt rather shy and awkward, and intensely thirsty.
Daphne began to think about what time it was, and about her train back—subjects that never occurred to her when she was alone with Mrs. Foster.
"I'm afraid I shall soon have to be going," she said.
"Oh, I say! What, the moment I've arrived?"
He tried not to feel a little relieved. He wondered why he hadn't more to say to her. He had been desperate to get consent to their engagement, and was always extremely anxious and counting the minutes till they met, and when they were together, alone after much elaborate scheming, he felt a little embarrassed, and, like his fiancée, was surprised he wasn't happier.
"I say, Daphne!"
"Yes, dear."
"You do look sweet."
"Do you really think so?"
"Simply ripping! I say!"
"Yes."
"Won't it be jolly when we're married?"
"Yes; lovely."
"It will be all the time just like this, you see—only nicer ... I say! Isn't it hot?"
They sat holding hands, he looking at her admiringly, she feeling mildly pleased that such a dear, handsome boy should be so fond of her. In the minds of both was another sensation, which they did not recognise, or, at all events, would not admit to themselves. They both, especially Cyril, counted the minutes to thesetête-à-têtes, and immediately afterwards looked back on them with regret, feeling they had missed something. They wrote to each other frequent, short, but intensely affectionate letters about the happiness these interviews had given them. Yet, while they actually lasted, both Cyril and Daphne, had they only known it, were really rather bored. The next day, or the same evening, Cyril would write to her:—
"My own Darling,—How jolly it was havingyou a little to myself to-day! And to think that you really care for me!" and so on.
And she would enjoy writing back:—
"Dearest,—Didn't we have a heavenly time in the garden yesterday?" and so forth.
As a matter of fact, they had not had a heavenly time at all; when he kissed her, which he sometimes did, she did not really like it, though she knew she ought, and it gave her a sort of mental gratification to think that hehadgiven this manifestation of love, as she knew it was considered the right thing.
He did not really regard her as a woman at all, but more as a lovely doll, or sweet companion, and it pleased his vanity immensely to think he should be allowed this privilege, which at the same time seemed to him a little unnecessary, and even derogatory to her, though he enjoyed it very much too, in a somewhat uncomfortable way.
The fact that their engagement was so indefinite, that they had hardly any hope of being married for at least two years, perhaps added a little to thegêneof these meetings. The instant they were separated he began to long to see her alone again. Daphne felt sure she must be really in love because she took comparatively little interest in anything thatwas not more or less connected with the idea of Cyril. Perhaps she enjoyed the things she associated with him more than his actual presence. Talking about him to Valentia, or hearing about him from his mother, seemed more amusing and exciting than sitting with him alone and holding his hand. She would have liked best never to see him except in evening dress at a party, only to hear about him or think about him all day.
Cyril was sure that his feeling was real love, because he did not care two straws how hard up they should be when they were married, and because if he heard any one sing a sentimental song, however badly, he immediately thought of her with the greatest tenderness. He believed he missed her every moment of the day, and he took great trouble to see her, especially when there was a chance of their being alone. But, as a matter of fact, he was rather glad when Mrs. Foster came out into the garden; and when he had seen Daphne off at the station, although it was a pang to see her go away without him, it was perhaps also a slight relief.
When Val came to meet her at the station, full of news about the extraordinary number of exciting things that had happened in the day, and they dashed back to dress for a dinner Harry was giving before going to a dance,Daphne felt a tinge of sentiment and regret for the idyllic happiness in the garden, and began to count the hours until they should meet alone again. The glamour always returned an hour or so after they had been separated.
With characteristic amiability, combined with that courage which had caused impatient people, who snubbed her in vain, to say she had the hide of a rhinoceros, Miss Luscombe had accepted the blow of Rathbone's proposal—the proposal which she had taken for an offer of marriage, but which was really an offer to go on the stage. She set to work at once making little efforts (most of which she knew to be futile) to arrange the matter. After all, if she should succeed in getting him some sort of a part, mightn't he, out of gratitude?... And she saw visions. Again, he had evidently got it very badly, this mania for acting and dressing up, and he had really quite enough money, if he chose to devote it to this object only; why shouldn't he take a theatre—make himself the manager andjeune premier, or, for the matter of that,vieux dernier—it really didn't matter—and let her be the leading lady? That was if hefailed in every other scheme. She wrote letters to various people whom she knew on the stage, mentioning Rathbone's enormous willingness to takeanything, his gentlemanly appearance, and, she felt sure, reallysometalent, though no experience. Most people took no notice, but after a while she received an offer for him to play one of the gentlemen in the chorus ofOur Miss Gibbsin a second-rate little touring company of the smaller northern provincial towns.
It was an excuse for an interview, certainly; but this for a man who wished to play Romeo! And if, in his enthusiasm, he should actually accept it, it would take him away from her. However, hearing that she had some news for him, he, in his delighted gratitude, asked her to tea at the Carlton.
They were seated in the Palm Court eating their tea-cakes and sandwiches to the sound of "The Teddy Bear's Picnic," which made one feel cheerful and reckless, followed by "Simple Aveu," a thin, sentimental solo on the violin that made one feel resigned and melancholy. It was played by a man with a three-cornered face and a very bald head, who gazed at the ceiling as if in a kind of swoon—a swoon that might have been induced either by tender ecstasy or acute boredom.
All around them were noisy Americans, neatly dressed, and a good many prim, self-conscious ladies on the stage who had come on from theirmatinéesand were accompanied mostly either by very young and rather chinless adorers, or by fat, fatuous men with dark moustaches, hair inclined to curl, and clothes a shade too gorgeous.
Here and there a simple, provincial-looking family were to be seen who had come up for a few days and had been to an afternoon performance, and were talking with great animation of the rights and wrongs of the hero and heroine of the play. It was characteristic of the provincials that they were really excited about the play itself, hardly knowing who were performing, while the suburbanites took interest only in the actors, all of whom they knew well by name and reputation, even their private life—at least, as much of it as got into thePrattler,The Perfect Lady, andHome Chirps.
On the whole it was a very characteristic London crowd, in that it consisted almost entirely of desirable aliens. Here and there, indeed, one saw a thin, slim, pretty woman with a happy but bothered-looking young man, both obviously English, who talked in low tones, and were evidently at some stage or other of a rose-coloured romance; but they were the exception.
Amidst this noisy and confused clientèle, withits showy clothes and obvious feminine charms, Miss Luscombe looked a strange, stray, untidy hothouse plant. She was odd and artificial, and dressed like nothing on earth, in pale and faded colours; but she was not vulgar. She was rather queer and delicate, and intensely amiable. Her self-consciousness made no claim on one; she was not exacting—always pleased and good-tempered. Rathbone recognised these qualities in her, and liked her better to-day, amidst the scent of the tea-cakes and cigarettes and the whine of the violin, than he had ever liked her before.
Pink, fair, calm, clean, and really hardly anything else, except extremely correct, and always good form, without being too noticeably so, no one would have dreamed that this quiet young man, who looked like a shy subaltern, was simply dying to disport himself on the stage, and that it was the dream of his life to make an utter ass of himself as Hamlet, or a hopeless fool of himself as (say) the hero inStill Waters Run Deep—a play he had seen as a boy and had always longed to act in.
She had broken the news to him.
"Miss Luscombe, do you mean to say that is the very best you can do for me?"
She explained the difficulties.
He was only one of so many! Unless the namewas known it was frightfully difficult—even for geniuses—to get on. Of course, he might try, and go and see the various managers himself, but, frankly, probably nothing would come of it.
He was deeply depressed. What should she suggest?
"Might I ask if you care very, very much?" she asked.
"You might. I do." Yes. His heart was set on it.
Was it really? Well, if he simply hadn't the strength to go on living another day without going on the stage, the only thing, clearly, was just to hire a theatre andgoon! Amatinée, perhaps. Why not Romeo?
"And why not Juliet?" said he, rather rashly.
"Oh, that would be lovely!"
Her attention wandered at this moment. A very pretty, fair woman was rising from behind a palm where she had been seated with her back to the room. She went out rather quickly, followed by a good-looking young man with a single eye-glass.
"They have been trying to hide!" she exclaimed. "What a joke! It's that sweet Valentia Wyburn and Harry de Freyne. They must have been here when we arrived, for we should have seen them come in. I wonder what they came for?"
"To have tea, perhaps?" suggested Rathbone, after deep thought, shrewdly.
"Yes, yes, I know. But why hide like that?"
"Perhaps they didn't want to be seen," said Rathbone brilliantly.
"Yes, of course, but why not? I hope it doesn't show...."
"Well, it shows there's nothing in it, or they wouldn't come here."
"Does it?" said Miss Luscombe, rather disappointed.
"Well, where's the harm in being here? Ain't we here?"
"Oh yes, of course; but that's different. They're cousins, too, of course; I had forgotten."
"I don't see why you should worry if Romer doesn't," said Rathbone.
Before they left Rathbone had very nearly promised to see about engaging a theatre, and either for a charity or as an invitationmatinée, rope, as he expressed it, all his friends in, lock the door, and force them to see him play Romeo to Miss Luscombe's Juliet.
Flora was deliriously happy at the idea, but had too much experience to rely on it, and was quite prepared to be thrown over for another more professional actress, and asked to play one of the ladies at the ball in the first act instead, probably in a mask. She went home and readover her one good notice—a great treasure—that had appeared in an evening paper, and had spoken of her as "a young actress with a bright and winsome personality." That was in a very small part, ten years ago. Would she ever get another real chance?
Mrs. Wyburn found Miss Westbury being sensible and decided and holding forth about things in general to one or two friends over the tea-cups. Something in the way the old lady sat down and unfastened her mantle, so as to be sure to feel the benefit of it when she went out again, made the other women present feel that they were not wanted, and Miss Westbury did not attempt to detain them. For (though she would not have put it like that) she knew that she would get more fun out of her friend'sméchancetéif they were alone. Scandal, gossip made tedious by morality, is only really enjoyableen tête-à-tête.
"I do so hope, Isabella, that you haven't had any more annoyance about the silly things that are being said about your pretty daughter-in-law," remarked Miss Westbury, leaning back with the comfortable amiability of a fat woman who expects to be amused.
Mrs. Wyburn looked round the room.
"Curious you never have your ceiling painted," she said. "I've often wondered why it is. It looks—you'll forgive me for saying so, Millie, won't you?—as if you left it in its present state from motives of, may I say, economy? But, of course, I know it isn't that—I always say, it's simply that you haven't noticed it. Thanks, no—no tea."
Miss Westbury's serenity was slightly disturbed, as her friend intended.
"I certainly don't spend my whole time lying on my back looking at the ceiling," she answered rather brusquely. "I have far too much to do."
"I never suggested that you should," quickly replied Mrs. Wyburn. "Such a thing never occurred to me for a single moment. And please don't think I wish to interfere, or to make remarks about anything that doesn't concern me. It merely struck me that if, at any time, you thought by some curious chance of having the house done up, it might be a pity to leave out the ceiling. But that was all. I do assure you, Millie, I never dreamt of hurting your feelings."
Miss Westbury laughed with a rather cackling sound—a sound Mrs. Wyburn recognised with satisfaction. It showed just the degree of slight annoyance she loved to cause in any one to whom she was speaking. Miss Westbury, however, waived the question and became hospitable.
"Do let me persuade you to have a toasted bun. Our baker makes them in a special way on purpose for me. There's nothing in the world more sensible with one's tea than a small toasted currant bun. I was speaking to Dr. Gribling about it only the other day, oddly enough, and he quite agreed with me."
"Whyonly the other day? and whyoddly enough, Millie?—I dare say you speak to him constantly about it and about other equally urgent matters." She spoke with what she meant to be a slight sneer, in reply to which Miss Westbury behaved in a manner that is sometimes described as bridling up. She gave a movement meant to be a toss of the head and placed her lips firmly together.
"I like Dr. Gribling, Isabella, because he's a thoroughly sensible man—a man you can say anything to."
Mrs. Wyburn thought that Miss Westbury would say anything to any one, and she shrewdly suspected that Millie was probably the one gleam of amusement in poor old Dr. Gribling's dreary round. However, she waved the eminent physician aside and said—
"About Valentia. She and Romer have gone down to the country, you know."
"Oh, indeed! Quite early to go. Very nice. Have they a large party there, do you know? TheGreen Gate is such a charming place—so picturesque."
"Have you ever seen it?" Mrs. Wyburn asked.
"Only in theDaily Mail—I mean accounts of week-ends there, and that sort of thing. But I believe it's quite charming. It seems almost a pity though, doesn't it, at the end of the season to begin the same frivolities and gaieties all over again. I wonder they don't take a little rest."
"I believe they are resting. Valentia wrote to me that no one was staying there at all, except, of course, Daphne."
"And Harry de Freyne?"
"Yes, and Mr. de Freyne."
"Strange," said Miss Westbury comfortably. "Curious that extraordinary infatuation of your—son for this young man. But he's a very charming man, isn't he? Most agreeable?"
"He's not absolutely unpleasant."
"I suppose he brightens them up—amuses them? Probably he has very high spirits. Perhaps he has thejar de veev." Miss Westbury had a private pronunciation of foreign expressions all her own. "It is unfortunate, but do you know one often sees that in unprincipled people, Isabella."
"He knows that he's not quite a gentleman, and is trying to laugh it off," said Mrs. Wyburn.
"Does he really? Dear, dear—what a sad thing!—and yet he certainlyoughtto be a gentleman,you know. On his mother's side he is connected with the——"
"That's not the point," snapped Mrs. Wyburn. "And of course I don't mean to say that—outwardly—he's not. His manner and appearance are distinguished. It's the soul that's vulgar."
"Ah, I see! You mean you're afraid he isn't one ofnature'sgentlemen?"
"Nature? How do you mean? He has nothing to do with nature. He's a man about town."
"Oh, I beg your pardon—I understood he was an artist. And sometimes, you know, artists are extremely fond of nature; in fact, fartoofond."
"I believe all that painting is only done to throw dust in people's eyes—an excuse for idleness. Candidly, I don't like studios; I don't think they're respectable."
"I know what you mean; but still, after all"—Miss Westbury made a feeble attempt at a good-natured defence—"after all, if they all like it—I mean to say, if they're all so happy, why should we——"
"I doubt if my son is happy."
"Oh, really, really? Do you think he'sever noticed anything?Isn't he devoted to Harry de Freyne?"
"Of course he hates him like poison," replied the mother.
Miss Westbury started in delighted horror,and replied sharply, "How do you know that? Did he tell you?"
"Tell me! He would never tell me. Besides, he couldn't tell me—he doesn't know it."
"And how do you know it?"
"Mothers know everything," she replied.
After a minute's pause, Miss Westbury said—
"But if you feel sure that Romer isn't happy, and that he, almost unconsciously perhaps, doesn't really like this young man being always about, mightn't it some day end in some trouble—some explosion?"
"It's quite possible."
"Then I wonder what Romer would do?"
"I know what he would do."
"Good heavens, Isabella, you don't mean to say that he would ever bring a——"
"It's really strange," said Mrs. Wyburn, "that at your age you should still be so silly. Will you never learn to understand anything at all? Of course not. He would protect her."
"Can't something be done? Why don't you speak to Valentia?"
"The advice of a relative-in-law in a case of this kind has never yet been known to be of any real use, Millie. I can only hope the whole thing may gradually wear itself out."
"May it be so, my dear!" echoed Miss Westbury, unctuously.
Mrs. Wyburn got up to go.
Miss Westbury helped her to fasten her mantle.
"I'm so glad you loosened it, or else you might not feel the benefit of it when you go out, Isabella," she observed, for she was not one to miss an opportunity of making a remark of this kind. "Anddolook on the bright side. I always say that things of this sort may not be true, and even if they are, everything may be for the best in the end."
Mrs. Wyburn liked to excite Millie's interest, and yet somehow loathed her sympathy.
"Yes; do you know, I reallyshouldhave the ceiling painted, if I were you," she said, as if it were a new idea. "Otherwise your house is looking so nice—quite charming. I think it such an excellent plan not to have flowers in the windows, only ever-greens."
"So glad you think so. Itisrather a good arrangement, because, you see, they always look exactly the same all the year round."
"That they certainly do—and nevergreens would be a better name for them," spitefully said Mrs. Wyburn to herself as she drove off.
"What a tiresome mood Isabella was in to-day," said Miss Westbury to herself. "I must go and see Jane Totness and tell her what she said.... Ceiling, indeed! Shewasnasty!"
Miss Luscombe was looking out of the window, looking up to the street, waiting. At last she saw from her basement (the "tank," as her friends called it) a glimpse on the pavement of a pair of feet that she knew. They were the feet of Mr. John Ryland Rathbone. She hastened to prepare herself for his visit.
It is obvious that people who live in a basement must look at life from a different point of view from all others. The proudest of women in that position must necessarily see itde bas en haut. The woman looking out of the drawing-room or higher for the person she is expecting to see gets more or less of a bird's-eye view. She sees the top of a hat first, and the person necessarily foreshortened. From the dining-room or ground-floor window she sees the approaching visitor through glass, but practically on a level, almost face to face, and therefore isincapable of judging him on the whole or of taking a very large view, since any object placed close to the eye deprives one of a sense of proportion—shuts out everything else. But from a basement window things are very different. It is wonderful how much character one learns to see in feet, and it is still more curious how, to the accustomed eye, their expression can vary from time to time. Flora saw at a glance by the obstinate stamp, the bad-tempered look of his boots, by the nervous impatience of his stride, that Mr. Rathbone was coming to see her in a state of agitation. One would hardly have believed that, without having seen his face at all, she would be so prepared for his behaviour when he arrived as to greet him anxiously from the door, even before he came in, with "Good heavens, whatisthe matter?"
"How do you know anything is the matter?"
"I guessed. I saw your steps."
"Everything is going wrong about the play. The expenses get larger every day. To sell evenoneticket for a charity, they tell me, is simply out of the question! I must invite everybody, and even then most of them won't come. Just think, my dear Miss Luscombe, all this trouble, worry, and expense for amateurs to playRomeo and Julietat an invitation performance to an absolutely empty house!"
"Why do you think it will be empty?... Your friends?"
"My friends? You're my only friend! Every chap at the Club I have spoken to about it said they would be out of town that day. One or two said they would come on afterwards and join me at supper. Supper! I said it was amatinée; so then they suggested I should give a dinner afterwards. And even women, they're quite as bad. I mentioned it to Lady Walmer. She is always so keen on going everywhere, and makes a hobby of odd charities and things. She said she was going yachting that day, and also that she was going to a wedding."
"What does it matter just about Lady Walmer?"
"Nothing, but it's an indication. Do we want to have no one in a theatre but the dressmakers who made the costumes? Miss Luscombe—Flora! I am beginning to think we'd better chuck it."
"Oh, Mr. Rathbone! The waste and the disappointment!"
"It would be a greater waste to make an utter fool of oneself in an empty house than to postpone it. I'm nervous. I'm really frightened. I'm beginning to see that I've been a fool. As to disappointment,that, Flora, you could console me for if you chose."
"Oh, Mr. Rathbone!"
"You really have been so sweet, so patient, it's my opinion that you are an angel!"
"Oh, indeed I'm not!"
"Well, you have the patience of one. You never think about yourself. You're all kindness and sweetness and thought for other people. To speak perfectly frankly, you have only one tiny fault, Flora. And that is, that you seem alittleartificial. But it's my opinion that such affectations as you have are natural to you and you can't help them, and you would be an ideal wife."
Flora was actually silent with gratification. She did not even laugh.
"Look here, Flora, we'd better chuck the performance altogether. Let's give it up, and have a show instead at St. George's, Hanover Square."
"Are you making fun of me?" she asked, in a trembling voice, "because that would not be right. It wouldn't be nice of you—in fact, it would be rather cruel."
"You don't mean to say you care for me the least little bit?" He took both her hands and stared hard at her face. "Is there something real about you then?" he continued.
Tears came to her eyes. She turned her head away.
"This seems too good to be true," she murmured.
"Let's be married," he cried, "on the day we were going to have the show. Let's go to Oberammergau for our honeymoon, and don't let us ever go near the theatre again. Will you, dear? Or am I dreaming?"
"Of course. I always have," she answered ingenuously; "but I hadn't a scrap of hope, and I didn't know how much I cared for you."
"Dear Flora, I shall give up the stage and devote all my time to you."
"So will I," she said. "I shall never want to act again."
"Nor I, never—never!"
"I shall rush home and countermand everything," he cried.
"Oh, go not yet; it is not yet near day," she quoted in the tender voice she used for recitation.
He burst into peals of laughter, and put his arms round her and kissed her impetuously.
"Oh, Flora, what a fool I have been all this time! And you knew it—you knew it perfectly well. I thought when we were rehearsing that once you said the words, 'O Romeo, wherefore artthouRomeo?' with rather marked emphasison the 'thou'...."
"Do you know that I never cared for any one but you in my life, Flora?"
"Oh, oh! Why is 'C. L.' tattooed on your wrist?"
"I'll have it taken out. I'll have Flora put on instead. I'll have anything you like tattooed in your honour—a hunting scene, a snap-shot of the Coronation—anything you like."
"No, please not. I don't like it; I can't bear it. It's the only thing I ever haven't liked about you. But we'll forget it now, won't we?" she said.
"And I'll forget the stage. Oh, Flora, how I have worried you! Forgive me. We won't think of anything but each other now."
They repeated this sentiment again and again in these and other words for about an hour and a half, and forgot to turn up lights and ring the bell.
The first real love scene Flora had ever acted in was a triumphant success.
To have eleven plays, all written out of one's own head, and all being performed simultaneously in American, in Eskimo, and even in Turkish, besides in every known European language; to have money rolling in, and the strange world of agents and managers pursuing you by every post and imploring for more contracts by every Marconigram; and these triumphs to have come quite suddenly, was really enough to have turned the head of any young man; yet Hereford Vaughan's (known by his very few intimate friends as Gillie) had remained remarkably calm. He was not even embittered by success.
To know his jokes were being got over the footlights of so many lands was a curious sensation, and it often made him laugh suddenly to reflect how wicked certain quips must sound in, say, Japanese. Perhaps his friends were rather inclined to resent the way he retained hisbalance after what was really an almost unheard-of hit. They would have been readier to pardon it had he shown some sign of boring fatuity; or perhaps they thought he might at least have had a temporary nervous breakdown; taking the form (for choice) of losing all sense of the value of money and wildly throwing bank-notes and gold at every one he saw. But he remained quiet, reserved, and as apparently modest as ever.
Modesty is a valuable merit (as I think Schopenhauer has discovered) in people who have no other, and the appearance of it is extremely useful to those who have, but I am not suggesting that Vaughan was not human, and there was, no doubt, many a moment when he smiled to himself, and felt that he was a great man.
He was rather secretive and mysterious than blatant or dashing, and this, of course, made him, on the whole, more interesting to women. The fact that he had made a fortune and lived alone in a charming house with nothing but housekeepers, secretaries, telephones, typewriters, and cooks, of course made all the women of his acquaintance who had the match-making instinct (and what woman has not?) desire to see him married. As he showed no sign of doing so, they tried to console themselves by pretendingthat he had some secret romance. Old ladies hoped he had a broken heart for some fiancée who was lying under the daisies, having died of decline in the classical middle-Victorian way. Young ladies thought that he was probably fixed up in some way that would be sure in time to dissolve, and that he would marry later on. Far the most popular theory was that he didn't marry simply because hewasmarried, privately; and that he had, no doubt, hurriedly espoused, before he was of age (and before the Registrar), some barmaid or chorus-girl, or other dreadful person, who had turned out far too respectable to divorce, and that he was thus a young man marred. They had no grounds for the rumour except that clever and promising young men often did these things, and he had always been a particularly promising young man, and in this unfortunate case had probably kept his promise.
Vaughan was sitting one morning reading his notices (never believe the greatest men when they tell you that they don't do that!), when Muir Howard came cheerily, almost boisterously, into the room. He was an old school friend who had been devoted to Gillie long before his arrival, and of whose faults, virtues, cheeriness, and admiration Vaughan had made a confirmed habit.
Muir was a very good-looking barrister, with vague parliamentary ambitions and a definite love of machinery. He always had pink cheeks, and wore a pink carnation, and looked as flourishing, gay, and yet, somehow, battered, as Vaughan looked pale, fresh, and sardonic. One of the things that surprised the general public was that Vaughan could not live without the continuous society of a person who certainly could not understand a word he wrote or much that he said. They didn't realise that Vaughan was so accustomed to not listening to Muir's long confidences, to disputing every proposition he made, and contradicting every word he said, that he always felt lost when his friend was away. Muir regarded him as a combination of hero, genius, pet, and child, and was always giving him advice and imploring him not to do too much. To Vaughan he was, as I have said, a habit, and there is always something agreeable in a habit of which one is a little tired.
He had arrived this morning on his bicycle, and came in bringing a whiff of heartiness, self-complacency, and fresh air, saying, "Hallo! hallo! hallo! Priceless to find you in, Gillie!" All he got for it was that Vaughan looked up and said—
"You used to be only breezy. Now you'rebecoming a thorough draught. Fold up and keep quiet, can't you?"
"Nervous, I suppose," said Muir, in a sympathetic voice. "I wonder you don't take that stuff that you see in the papers about what is good for——"
"Sudden pains in the back on washing-day, bending over the tub, and so forth? The portraits of the people before taking the remedy and after decided me. It seems, by the pictures, to make your hair grow long and give you whiskers and a ghastly squint. Ruins your clothes, too. Your collars get the wrong shape."
"Oh well, leave it alone, then. Perhaps you're right.... You haven't asked me about the Walmers' dance. I took Miss de Freyne to supper. The American chap never turned up, and I was getting on with her simply rippingly, whenwhatdo you think she said? Confided in me that she was privately engaged to and frightfully keen on that boy you met at Harry's. The baby Guardsman. Isn't it sickening?"
"What did Miss Walmer do?" asked Vaughan.
"She sort of hung about, waiting for Harry, who seemed to be getting on all right with the two strings to his bow, or two stools, or two bundles of hay, or whatever it is. What luck some people have!"
"Not in this case. He'll lose them both."
"Really? Why?"
"He's not a diplomatist, and he wants such a lot for himself. He wants too much. No self-restraint."
"Pretty useless for Mrs. Wyburn. I like her. She looked topping last night, too. But I dare say it'll be all right. Romer's a good chap. Awfully dull."
"Most interesting. Are you going to stay here much longer, Muir?"
"Why? Yes."
Vaughan got up.
"All right. Do. I'm going out."
"Where?"
Vaughan did not answer, but gave the heap of notices to his friend, and said—
"Just divide the sheep and goats for me, will you? That's just what they are, the critics—either sheep or goats."
"Of course I will. But, I say—I came here to have a talk."
"I know you did. You have talked."
He went out. Muir smiled to himself, enjoying this treatment as an eccentricity of genius.
Five minutes later Gillie came back.
He was not much surprised to find Muir proudly examining the invitation cards on the mantelpiece. Muir started and turned round as he came in.
"Back again? Capital!"
"Well, of all the snobs!" said Vaughan.
"Hang it, Gillie, it's only for you. I'm pleased you're getting on, that's all."
"No words can tell you how I despise your point of view. Just tell me something I want to know. Wasn't there a sort of little scene at this dance last night?"
"I didn't see anything," he answered.
"You never do."
"Oh, I remember now, I heard something. It appears that Romer left his wife and Daphne at the dance and then came back in an hour to fetch them, and she wasn't there."
"Who wasn't where?"
"Val and Harry had gone for a little fresh airin a taxi for about a quarter of an hour, that's all. They came back and explained it."
"They would. Don't apologise."
"But just the few minutes that Romer was looking for them made—well, rather a fuss. It was perfectly all right afterwards. They all had supper together. So there wasn't much talk about it, except, as I say, while Romer was waiting for them. I never in my life saw any one look so ghastly as that chap did."
Vaughan sat down and looked thoughtful.
"Only you, Muir, would leave out the only thing of the slightest importance that you had to tell me, which I hear the second I leave the house from that round-faced tattooed idiot, Rathbone, at the corner of the street."
"But I tell you it's all right, old chap."
"All right? Don't you see that this sort of thing constantly happening will gradually undermine ...? I like Valentia. It's a great shame."
"Harry certainly isn't worth smashing up a happy home for," Muir answered, "if that's what you're afraid of. But ... when he marries Miss Walmer it'll be all right. Val will forget about him, and settle down with Romer again. I'm deeper than you think, Gillie ... ah, I don't say much, but I can see as far through a brick wall as most people!"
"Just about as far, I should think," said Vaughan contemptuously.
"What do you propose to do about it?"
"It's likely I'd tell you." Gillie sat down to his desk and rang a bell.
"I suppose I've got to go now, eh?"
"Almost time, I should think."
"Ha, ha, ha! Capital! Well, so long! Be good."
Muir went away as heartily as he had arrived.
The bell was answered by the entrance of the housekeeper, Mrs. Mills. She was a muddle-headed, elderly woman in black silk, whom Vaughan kept because her extraordinary tactlessness amused him. She invariably managed to do and say the wrong thing at the right time. To-day it was a hot morning in July. She came in holding in her hand a little card covered with frost and robins.
"Mr. Vaughan, sir, I appened to be going through my things, and I come across this, sir. I thought pre-aps you'd like it. It is pretty."
She insisted on his taking it.
"Charming, Mrs. Mills, but I don't quite see——"
"Oh, look at the words, sir! They're what I call so appropriate! Do read them."
He read the beautiful words—