Wishing you a blithe and gladsome Yule.
Wishing you a blithe and gladsome Yule.
"What on earth——?"
"Well, sir, I only thought they was pretty, and pre-aps you'd like to keep it, sir, or send it to one of your young ladies; but I'll take it away if you don't like it." She put it back in her pocket.
"Frankly, I don't. What a genius you have for the wrong thing! Are you going to give me plum pudding and turkey on Midsummer Day?"
"I shouldn't dream of such a thing, sir."
Gillie had scribbled a letter.
"Go and ring up a messenger boy, will you?"
"May I send Johnson, sir? I don't old with telephones. They buzz at you or makes you jump. And the young person keeps on saying ave you got them? before you've ad time to breathe, in a manner of speaking."
She took the note. Vaughan sat down on a sofa to wait for the answer, glanced at the clock, and said, "Confound Muir! He's made me waste another morning."
When the answer came, Gillie went out and strolled towards Mount Street.
He found Valentia at home, evidently flattered and fluttered at seeing him.
"How sweet of you to come!" she said.
"You'll stay to lunch, of course?"
"I'm afraid I can't."
"Oh! lunching with a leading lady, I suppose?"
"No."
"With whom?"
"With Romeike and Curtice."
"Not really? What fun! What are they like?"
"Oh, Romeike is all right. I don't care so much about Curtice."
She gave him a cigarette.
"I never in my life," said Vaughan, "before to-day, attempted to interfere in anybody else's affairs."
She stared at him.
"But in this case it—may I really smoke?—does seem such a pity! Of course you know what I mean, don't you?"
"Do I?"
"You see, I feel so certain that if you were, let's say—married toHarryand met Romer after, you'd be so wildly in love with Romer."
"So I was," she said in a low voice. "Tremendously! I thought he was a strong silent man with a great deal in him.... Oh! I've told you."
"Yes, but so he is. It's commonplace of you, really, Val, not to see it."
"I'm awfully sorry.... I do love Romer, and I think I appreciate him. But somehow it's a little dull. It's not exciting as I thought it would be."
"Well! if youmusthave fun, and amusement, and make a hero of somebody, why just Harry? Why not a superior man? Me, for instance?"
He was laughing.
"I've been told that an adoration for you would be hopeless, utterly hopeless." She smiled. "And we're friends. I can't imagine——"
"Nor I. Of course I know it's utterly absurd to come and give people advice on these subjects, and one can't dispute about tastes and all that. But my practical mind revolts to see any one so delightful as you throwing away the substance for the shadow. You see, I'm a mass of platitudes."
"Shadows are very attractive sometimes."
"But they go away too. And then where are you?"
She was silent.
"They do, really. I know what I'm talking about." He stood up. "Think over what I've said."
"You're kind, but you're rather depressing, Gillie," said Val. She looked a little frightened, but very pretty.
"When do you go back to the country?"
"Oh, to-day. We're there now. We only came up for the dance. We're motoring down to the Green Gate.... All of us."
"Oh yes.... I'm afraid you must think me very impertinent."
"Indeed I don't."
"And when I've gone you will give orders that you're never at home to me again. But, somehow, I couldn't help it. If it makes you hate me to remember what I've said, forget it."
She laughed as he rose to go.
"That's all right, Gillie; but what I want to know is, where you're really going."
"I'll tell you, exactly. I'm going home to lunch, because I've an urgent appointment immediately afterwards."
"More plays, I suppose? What sort this time?"
"A light comedy, with a very slight love interest," he answered, "all dialogue, no action.... At least, so far."
"Oh, then it isn't finished yet?"
"Not quite. Good-bye. And if you ever want a change, remember—asuperiorman!"
They both laughed insincerely.
He left her looking thoughtfully out of the window.
Vaughan went home, and after lunching, chiefly on a newspaper and a cup of coffee, he got into a taxicab and gave a direction.
The vehicle flew smoothly along down Park Lane, past the Marble Arch into the Edgware Road, and on from there between houses and shops, growing gradually uglier and uglier, to Maida Vale, up Shoot-up Hill, and so on until there was a glimpse of suburban country, and gasworks, and glaring posters of melodramas on hoardings, till it stopped suddenly at a real little old roadside inn, straight out of Dickens—"The Bald-faced Stag at Edgware." Edgware suggestedJohn Gilpin, Gillie's favourite poem.
Here he got out, and was positively welcomed, and heartily, by a real roadside innkeeper—also out of Dickens—resembling the elder Weller—a local magnate called Tom Brill, who looked a relic of the coaching days, though really he never did anything but stand in frontof the inn in his shirt-sleeves and welcome people.
Vaughan, obviously an habitué, walked through the inn into a perfectly adorable garden, which was so large, so quiet, and so full of pinks, hollyhocks, and other old-fashioned flowers, so absolutely peaceful and sleepy, that one could have imagined oneself miles away in the country.
The garden belonged as much to the Dickens period as the inn itself. It contained a great many wooden arbours in which one could imagine ladies in crinolines archly accepting tea, or refusing sips of shrub (whatever that may be) with whiskered gentlemen. There was a large cage full of Persian pheasants with gorgeous Indian colouring, which always suggested to Vaughan—he didn't know why—the Crimean War. There was a parlour covered with coloured prints of racehorses and boxing matches, and in which was a little round table painted as a draught-board, and furnished with a set of Indian chessmen of red and white ivory. The whole thing, though only twenty minutes' drive from Mayfair, was unknown, unspoilt, and apparently had not altered in any particular since about 1856. Its great charm was that it was utterly unself-conscious; it had no idea that it was quaint.
Vaughan sat down on a rustic seat and plunged into the atmosphere of the period that he loved, revelling in the soothing, delightful calm, and in the fact that nobody there knew who he was (though they knew him well by name), and that none of his friends and acquaintances would have dreamt that he was there.
A large field beyond the garden contained cows, hay, and other rustic things.
Presently Tom Brill came up to him, and he asked after Mrs. Brill, whom her husband always described, with confidential pride, as "Though I say it that shouldn't say it, as fine a woman as you'll meet in a day's march."
Vaughan always assented to this proposition. As he had never himself in his life been for a day's march, and probably never would, he certainly would have had no right to contradict Mr. Brill on the subject.
"Is Miss Brill at home?" he presently asked. "May I see her?"
"Certainly, sir, of course you shall. She's helping her mother. I'll call her. Don't move, sir, don't move."
Miss Brill, who had been helping her mother to look out of the window, now came into the garden, which immediately became idyllic.
She was not in any way like the innkeeper'sdaughter of Comic Opera. She was a schoolgirl of sixteen, with a long, fair plait, a short serge skirt, and a seraphic oval face. She ought to have been called Fanny or Clara. Unluckily her name was Gladys.
She said in a very sweet voice—
"You're quite a stranger, sir." And she amplified the assertion by adding, "You haven't been here not this ever so long."
"I know I haven't, but I've been longing to come."
"Not you!" she said ironically.
She was standing opposite him, with her hands behind her back. Without a hat, in the glaring afternoon sun, with the complexion, pale pink and white, of a china doll that had never made up, she was a refreshing sight after the theatrical world in London, not to speak of society. Vaughan seemed to think so.
"Well, how did you enjoy the play?" he asked.
"It was very kind of you to send us the tickets. Mother enjoyed it."
"You didn't care much for the piece yourself?"
"I thought it was rather silly," she answered.
He had never had a criticism on his work that pleased him more.
"I mean," she went on, "I shouldn't have thought—well, nobody would go on like that."
"Go on how?"
"Why, go on so silly."
"You wouldn't like to see another play, written by the same man, then?"
"I wouldn't mind another one. Wild horses wouldn't drag me to see that again."
"Wild horses are not likely to try," he observed. At which jest she laughed loudly and charmingly, showing marvellous teeth. She had no cockney accent, though she occasionally and fitfully dropped an H.
"Oh, Gladys, do take me for a walk in the field."
"Want to see the calf?"
"No; I can live without seeing the calf. I want to sit in the field with you."
"You are a caution! Come on then, but I can't stay long."
They climbed the gate, which she seemed to think a quicker mode of entrance than sending for the key, and sat in the field, from which Mr. Brill always declared you could see three counties. Perhaps you could; if so, they all looked exactly alike.
"It's quiet here, isn't it? I shan't have much more of it," she remarked.
"Oh, Gladys! Don't say you're going away!"
"Of course I am. Don't you know I'm going to be a manicure in Bond Street?"
"Bond Street? How revolting! Is that your ambition?"
"Why, I think it would be very nice. I must do something. Father's settled about it. First I'm going to pay to learn it, and then I shall earn quite a lot. It's a greathairdresser's."
"I think it's horrible, Gladys. Perhaps you'll fall in love with a German hairdresser, and be lost to me for ever."
"I shan't fall in love with no foreigners, don't you fret."
"I'm not fretting. Will you have your hair done up?" he asked, lifting the long plait.
"Well, of course I shall, and waved, and that."
"Gladys, they'll spoil you."
The conversation went on in this strain for some time. She alternately repeated the exclamation, "How you do go on!" or accused him of the mysterious crime of being a caution, but she never stopped looking perfectly beautiful and seraphic.
When they went back to the garden a few other visitors had straggled in. They all seemed to come in high dog-carts, and they always ordered eggs, jam, and watercress with their tea, and were immensely impressed by the Persian pheasants.
Vaughan went back to London feeling refreshed, and already, strangely, counting the days till he could come back.
There was not a woman in the world he knew whom he would have taken the slightest trouble to see except Gladys, the innkeeper's daughter. She was an illiterate schoolgirl; and though she had a lovely face, she was stupid, and probably not so angelic as she looked; but he always felt a little disappointed as he drove back. He wished she were in love with him.
And this ungratified wish was, in all his full life with its brilliant success, perhaps his greatest real pleasure.
When Harry came down to breakfast, a little late, he found Valentia waiting to pour out his coffee, and some letters on his plate. She watched him as he opened them. Most of them looked like bills. On the envelope of one was a little blue flag. Harry put this letter in his pocket, and went on eating.
"It's a lovely morning, Harry. So fresh; just the sort of day not to do anything at all."
"Ah! that's what's so delightful about you all," he answered. "You never say, 'What shall we do?' and neither of you have ever said yet that this is Liberty Hall, which means, as a rule, in a country house, 'Breakfast at eight o'clock sharp, you won't mind it being a little cold if you're late, and then we are going for a motor drive at 9.30.' Still, I think, perhaps, one ought to take a little exercise. I feel almost equal to a game of croquet this afternoon—lateron—when I'm stronger. Is any one coming down to-day?"
"No. And only Van Buren, and Vaughan and Muir Howard on Sunday. I see you've heard from the Walmers. What do they say?"
"It's sure to be nothing of interest. How I love your hair parted on one side! It makes you look like a boy."
"Not a principal boy, I hope. Why not read the letter?"
Harry got up and fetched himself something from the sideboard.
"I don't feel quite strong enough yet. When I've had breakfast. I should like to paint you as you're looking now, Val. I think I'll do a sketch of you in the rose garden, all in black and white, like a Beardsley, with the balustrades and steps and things behind you. Will you sit to me?"
"That's all very well. But why don't you read your letter?"
"There's sure to be nothing in it."
"How can you tell till you've opened it?"
"I know. I always feel what's in a letter without opening it. Don't you? I absorb the essence, as it were, through the covers of the envelope, as somebody or other—Macaulay, I think—used to absorb all the important things through the covers of a book. Or wasn't it Macaulay? Anyhow, it doesn't matter. It wassome tiresome person whom one oughtn't to talk about on a morning like this."
Harry evidently was not quite at his ease.
"But why not read it?" She spoke playfully.
"How persistent women are, just like children. To tease you I just shan't."
"Oh, Harry!"
"I shan't read it now at all," he went on. "I can answer it without reading it."
"It's only that I should like to know how the Walmers are enjoying themselves onFlying Fish. Lady Walmer was a little afraid they mightn't like it."
Here Romer came up to the window and called out—
"I say, Val, come here a minute. I want to ask you something."
"Here I am, dear," and she vanished into the garden.
The second she had gone Harry opened the letter very carefully, and read—
"Dearest Harry,"You are a rotter never to write. I'm havingsucha time. Weather priceless, but very sick at not hearing from you. Algie Thynne is here. Do you know him? He's rather a nut. Wish you were here. No more to-day. Bye-bye, old son."Your loving "Alec.""P.S.—Do write. The moonlight nights are simply topping. Just like a picture. I think you'd like it; otherwise everything is beastly."I love you more than ever."A."
"Dearest Harry,
"You are a rotter never to write. I'm havingsucha time. Weather priceless, but very sick at not hearing from you. Algie Thynne is here. Do you know him? He's rather a nut. Wish you were here. No more to-day. Bye-bye, old son.
"Your loving "Alec."
"P.S.—Do write. The moonlight nights are simply topping. Just like a picture. I think you'd like it; otherwise everything is beastly.
"I love you more than ever.
"A."
He put the letter back in the untorn envelope and carefully fastened it up again. He then placed it on the mantelpiece, and having finished his breakfast, lit a cigarette.
He looked thoughtful.
"Algie Thynne, indeed!" he said to himself. "How pathetic, trying to make me jealous! Well, it's a pretty letter, and what's more, it must be answered."
Val came back.
"Romer wants the lawn mown," she said. "He's perfectly mad on the subject of mowing the lawn. He seems to think it ought to be shaved every day. It's the only thing he knows about the country. Well, have you read your letter?"
"There it is," said Harry. "You can read it if you like." He watched her carefully as she took it from the mantelpiece.
"I don't want to read it," she said, holding it.
"Nor do I," said Harry.
"Harry, tell me honestly, wouldn't you really mind if I tore it into little bits and put it in the waste-paper basket—just as it is?"
"Not a straw," said Harry, shaking his head.
She clapped her hands, tore it into tiny pieces, and threw it in the basket. Then she said, in a low voice of deep gratitude—
"Oh, Harry, you are sweet! Do forgive me."
"I don't see that there's anything to forgive," said Harry.
"Yes, there is; lots. I'm afraid I've been horrid. I'll never bother you about any thing again."
She was simply beaming.
"Good," answered Harry indifferently.
But as he followed her into the garden he looked rather perplexed. He felt that this sort of thing was not leading up very well to what he would have to tell her soon. However, why spoil a lovely day by thinking of it?
Like a schoolboy with his holiday task before him, he put it off as long as possible.
Though he didn't own it to himself, and was disdainfully amused at Alec's letter, still the thought of Algie Thynne, moonlight nights on the yacht, topping weather, and his own neglect, gave him some cause for alarm. Algie Thynne wascribléwith debts, and probably keen on marrying for money. Contemptible young ass! Why didn't hework? Harry despised him.
At the earliest opportunity (which, by the way, did not arise until he had made an excuse to go into the village, where he wrote at the post office) the answer was sent.
Even Harry found the beginning of the letter too difficult, so he always began (as Valentia might have said) without a beginning, which impressed Miss Walmer much more. Ever since he had reached the age of discretion, which, in his case, was at his majority, Harry had been thoroughly trained in the habit of writing letters that gratified the recipient enormously without compromising the writer in the slightest degree. The habitual dread of thosebêtes noiresof Don Juan—the breach of promise case and the Divorce Court—had got him into the way of writing the sort of letter that he would have had no objection to hear read aloud in court. Perhaps that was why the sentences were always polished, and the meaning a little vague.
"... I don't speak your language, perhaps, but I understand your letter, reading between the lines. It came like a whiff of fresh sea air. Yes, it would be delightful to be on boardFlying Fishnow. However, no doubt Algie Thynne—(howeloquently, by the way, you describe him! putting all the complications of his character and the dazzling charm of his personality in a nutshell by the simple sentence 'He's rather a nut!')—amply compensates for my absence. You ask if I know him. I do, though perhaps more by reputation than anythingelse. We have met once or twice. Where? I can't quite recall. Perhaps at the Oratory, or at the Supper Club or some place of that sort. But somehow I never pursued his acquaintance, nor did it ever ripen into friendship. I felt, instinctively, that he was too clever for me."I trust all the same that his brilliance will not altogether overshadow your memory ofothers. I should not like to think that we were drifting apart. Still, if it should be so, I must resign myself. I could still be happy in thinking of you, Alec.'Love that is love at allAsks for no earthly coronal'—but, I remember, you once expressed to me your opinion thatall poetry is rot. So I will not bore you with quotations. It is pleasant here, and my cousins are very kind, and leave me alone to think as much as I like. I'm not, somehow, quite in the mood for the usual gaieties and frivolities of a country house. Last night we played Musical Chairs until two in the morning, and to-day I am a little weary. Your postscript gave me joy. I need not say that I reciprocate it, need I?..."I feel all that you are feeling, and somehow even know what you are doing, and if you did not write again until we meet, I should not be anxious. I have a trusting nature. But when you wire, remember that the telegraph boy has agood way to walk, and when telegrams arrive after midnight, it causes a sensation and much inquiry. Also I cannot help feeling that every one in the village, as well as at the Green Gate, has read the words I would like to keep to myself alone. I have a curious love of mystery—isn't mystery the great charm of all romance?—So to gratify this fancy of mine, sign your next telegram 'Johnson.' I know you won't mind."When we meet again, all, I trust, will be clear and definite before us. Best love to dear Lady Walmer, and to yourself what I am sure you will know. Don't be angry with me for not writing oftener. I find it very difficult to express my thoughts, for alas, I have no command of language. Not only that, the pens here have one great fault—they won't write. Otherwise they're quite excellent.... Yes, your note has given me, as the French say, 'furiously to think.'"Hoping that all will go well with you, and looking forward, think me as always,"Yours, faithfully,"Harry Broke de Freyne."
"... I don't speak your language, perhaps, but I understand your letter, reading between the lines. It came like a whiff of fresh sea air. Yes, it would be delightful to be on boardFlying Fishnow. However, no doubt Algie Thynne—(howeloquently, by the way, you describe him! putting all the complications of his character and the dazzling charm of his personality in a nutshell by the simple sentence 'He's rather a nut!')—amply compensates for my absence. You ask if I know him. I do, though perhaps more by reputation than anythingelse. We have met once or twice. Where? I can't quite recall. Perhaps at the Oratory, or at the Supper Club or some place of that sort. But somehow I never pursued his acquaintance, nor did it ever ripen into friendship. I felt, instinctively, that he was too clever for me.
"I trust all the same that his brilliance will not altogether overshadow your memory ofothers. I should not like to think that we were drifting apart. Still, if it should be so, I must resign myself. I could still be happy in thinking of you, Alec.
'Love that is love at allAsks for no earthly coronal'—
'Love that is love at allAsks for no earthly coronal'—
but, I remember, you once expressed to me your opinion thatall poetry is rot. So I will not bore you with quotations. It is pleasant here, and my cousins are very kind, and leave me alone to think as much as I like. I'm not, somehow, quite in the mood for the usual gaieties and frivolities of a country house. Last night we played Musical Chairs until two in the morning, and to-day I am a little weary. Your postscript gave me joy. I need not say that I reciprocate it, need I?...
"I feel all that you are feeling, and somehow even know what you are doing, and if you did not write again until we meet, I should not be anxious. I have a trusting nature. But when you wire, remember that the telegraph boy has agood way to walk, and when telegrams arrive after midnight, it causes a sensation and much inquiry. Also I cannot help feeling that every one in the village, as well as at the Green Gate, has read the words I would like to keep to myself alone. I have a curious love of mystery—isn't mystery the great charm of all romance?—So to gratify this fancy of mine, sign your next telegram 'Johnson.' I know you won't mind.
"When we meet again, all, I trust, will be clear and definite before us. Best love to dear Lady Walmer, and to yourself what I am sure you will know. Don't be angry with me for not writing oftener. I find it very difficult to express my thoughts, for alas, I have no command of language. Not only that, the pens here have one great fault—they won't write. Otherwise they're quite excellent.... Yes, your note has given me, as the French say, 'furiously to think.'
"Hoping that all will go well with you, and looking forward, think me as always,
"Yours, faithfully,"Harry Broke de Freyne."
"There! that ought to keep her quiet for a month," he thought as he posted the letter, and with a sigh of relief turned back towards the Green Gate.
By this time Van Buren was entirely in Harry's confidence; that is to say, Harry had gradually trained him to bear without flinching the situation as Harry represented it. He believed Harry had a hopeless romantic affection for Mrs. Romer Wyburn which he was trying to stifle, and that Miss Walmer being hopelessly in love withhim, he was doing his best to marry her, partly, as he candidly admitted, on worldly grounds.
Van Buren was deeply touched at Harry's trust in him, and was always trying to keep him up to his good resolutions by pointing out that any understanding (however Platonic) between the pretty Valentia and the handsome guest was dishonourable, a breach of hospitality towards Romer, that silent but admirable host.
Indeed, he repeated to Harry so often and so firmly, "It can't be done; one can't make love to the wife of a friend," that Harry was drivento the point of replying that he hardly saw whom else, as a matter of fact, onecouldvery well make love to; it being impossible to have romances with people one didn't know. And in this case the fact that Harry was very fond of Romer made the temptation far greater, as he explained; Harry being (as he pointed out) so very sensitive and highly strung that he could never, somehow, be really attracted by a woman whose husband was not sympathetic to him. Which point of view Van Buren, shaking his head, regarded as unsound.
Harry now spent much time giving picturesque sketches and impressions of his feelings to his friend, for he had an almost feminine love of talking over personal affairs to the sympathetic. In his benevolence Van Buren longed to protect Valentia and Romer, and to give Miss Walmer all she wanted; but most of all his idea was to save Harry from himself, so he always accepted with alacrity invitations to the Green Gate for altruistic reasons. Besides, his desire to see Daphne, although she was now becoming more and more remote to him, was still persistent, if a little less vivid.
"I've had a beautiful womanly letter from Alec to-day," Harry confided in Van as soon as he arrived. "You know the sort of thing she writes: all in jerks and subaltern's slang. Withsincere sentiment showing between the lines. And I answered it."
"A beautiful manly letter, I hope? I'm sure you could do that as well as any one, Harry."
Harry smiled.
"Oh, just some vague, cautious slosh, not unamusing in its way—it'llgetthere all right."
"Yes, Harry, I know, but I do hope——Ah, Miss Daphne, how beautiful your England is looking to-day! In America we never have a day like this, warm and yet cool, with all those nice, white, fleecy clouds in the sky. Our atmosphere is always so hard and clear. Now this garden with those large trees is just like a Corot. Theyarefine trees. Poplars, I presume?"
"Youdopresume," smiled Daphne; "I don't know what they are, but I'm perfectly sure they're not poplars."
"Oh yes—I'm wrong. They're oaks, I've no doubt." He hummed, "'The oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree.' Do let's walk over and look at them closer, Miss Daphne."
"I'm afraid I can't. Tea's ready."
To his annoyance Van was obliged to follow Daphne and join the group round the tea-table. He declined with some formality of manner to accept the glass of iced water Daphne offered him, and looked at her with that look of tender, fixed, respectful reproach that had the effect ofirritating her very nearly to the point of incivility.
She turned to Muir Howard, who was looking very pink and cheery. Muir was a popular man for his great ease in making conversation, the kind that is as the pudding part in a plum pudding, and without which the plums, however delightful, could hardly stick together. Though the great majority of people talk commonplaces, their banalities are by no means always the kind that help. Muir's particular way of opening open doors, flogging dead horses, and genially enjoying any spark of fun in his friends, coupled with his good looks and pleasant, hearty disposition, made him a most useful and welcome guest, as a sort of super. He was quite decorative, and could be turned on to talk newspaper politics to dull men, pretty platitudes to plain women; to make himself generally useful, and altogether to help things to go. In this way he was invaluable. Young girls always liked him; he was a great favourite with elderly ladies, and with men of his own age also, who were, however, occasionally bored with his worship for his friend Vaughan. He found it very difficult not to mention Gillie less than once in every five minutes.
That distinguished young man, who was beginning to look a little jaded with incense, was engrossed with his hostess. Whenever he wasthere Harry always became particularly devoted in his manner to Valentia, and scarcely ever left her other side. This was one of the reasons that she enjoyed Gillie's presence, besides that she was, now that she knew him well, particularly fond of him. His conversation and personality in general had a special flavour.
Every one was talking and laughing with the light intoxication produced by tea and cigarettes in the open air on a fine Sunday afternoon, excepting only Romer, who as usual said hardly anything, absorbed in admiration of his wife. He suddenly remarked—
"I say, Val. The Campbells are coming."
He wondered why this statement produced a burst of irresponsible laughter.
"What fun! Will there be bagpipes?" Vaughan asked.
"No, no. Romer means the Prebendary Campbell, or at least his wife and daughter. They're coming to see us this afternoon. I had quite forgotten. Please all behave nicely. They've been a long time making up their minds. I believe they think we're frivolous."
"Not really? How could they? It reminds one of the story of Henry James." Vaughan stopped to light a cigarette.
"Go on."
"It appears that for some time his near neighboursin the country looked a little coldly on him on the grounds that, being a writer, he must be Bohemian. At last the local doctor's wife and clergyman's wife called on him, and finding him perfectly respectable, stayed for many hours. They were particularly tedious and rather self-righteous. When they had gone, he said thoughtfully to some one who was pitying him for being bored, 'One of those poor wantons has a certain cadaverous grace.'"
The story was well received, except by Van Buren, who seemed painfully shocked.
Daphne, who had gone into the house to fetch some snapshots, now came running back saying—
"Val, Val! The Campbells are arriving in a fly, and they seem to have brought their foreigner with them—that man Miss Campbell told me about. He's a kind of Belgian, and awfully clever—he's invented something."
"What's he invented?"
"Brussels sprouts?" suggested Harry rather sleepily.
"But they've been invented already."
"Why shouldn't he invent them over again? Give him a chance."
Muir began to sing softly, "Young Lochinvar has come out of the West," which he appearedto think a suitable serenade, but he stopped suddenly at Gillie's entreaty.
"I don't mind anything Muir does, as long as he doesn't sing," he always explained.
"It's awful hard lines. I've got a ripping baritone voice, but I never have a chance to use it," murmured Muir.
"You shall sing to me this afternoon. I'll accompany you," whispered Daphne.
Muir had gratefully answered that it was frightfully decent of her, when the servant announced—
"Mrs. and Miss Campbell. Mr.——" He left a blank, unable to pronounce the name.
But Mrs. Campbell introduced Mynheer von Stoendyck.
Mrs. Campbell was an amiable, colourless woman, with a greyish brown fringe that looked as if it were made of Berlin wool. Though she was not yet forty-five, she wore a bonnet with violet velvet strings, and had a very long waist. Also, her skirt, in reality quite normal, looked, to the eye used to contemporary fashion, grotesquely wide at the end.
Her daughter was an ordinary Rectory girl, spoilt by a dash of culture. At a glance all present saw she was in love with Mr. Stoendyck. He was a well-set-up man of about thirty-five, with amilitary manner and scientific eye-glasses, also a turned-up light moustache. He spoke all languages with one rasping accent, but Mrs. Campbell seemed to suffer under the delusion that he could only understand broken English. So whenever people spoke to him she translated their remarks into a sort of baby language that seemed singularly out of place from her.
"I'm afraid you must think me dreadfully worldly, calling on you on a Sunday," said Mrs. Campbell, laughing socially as she sat down. "But what the Prebendary always says is, the better the day the better the deed."
"Oh, does he always say that?" Harry asked with great apparent interest, waking up. He had been overpowered with languor ever since lunch.
"Yes, and I felt sure you wouldn't mind our bringing our friend, Mr. Stoendyck. He is so clever. He's come over to England about an invention."
Val thought of Brussels sprouts, but did not suggest it.
Mrs. Campbell apparently couldn't take her eyes off the Belgian, whom she watched as one watches a rather dangerous pet, though he appeared particularly safe.
Muir, for an unknown reason addressing the Belgian as Professor, was asking him his impressionsof England. Mrs. Campbell bent forward, and said with a nod—
"E ope you like it—Angleterre, you know"—and nodded idiotically.
"I find it most interesting," said Mr. Stoendyck raspingly, in admirable English. "There are opportunities in this country for the pursuance of science, art, and social intercourse which one would hardly have expected. I do not take tea, I thank you much."
"Have a glass of beer?" said Romer, suddenly inspired.
Simple as the sentence was, Mrs. Campbell thought it necessary to translate it with more nods.
"E ask you, ave beer.Bière, you know! Glass," and then she went on in her usual tone, "Most thoughtful of Mr. Wyburn, I'm sure. What a charming place this is of yours, Mrs. Wyburn. I always say the Green Gate is the most picturesque place in the neighbourhood. And Mr. de Freyne, I understand, is an artist. Do you know my daughter, Marion, issointerested in art! And my younger son, Garstin, though he is only twelve years old, shows great artistic talent, too. He did a map of Buckinghamshire that really surprised me, almost any one would recognise it at a glance. I always say I'm sure some day Garstin will be in the Royal Academy."
Van Buren had approached and began to talk to Mrs. Campbell. Val went over to the Belgian, but she heard the American beginning a sentence as usual with, "Pleased to meet you. I've never had the opportunity of mixing much in clerical circles in New York, Mrs. Campbell," and felt sure he was going to ask impossible questions about Prebendaries and Rural Deans.
The rasping Belgian, on whom both the mother and daughter cast continual anxious and admiring eyes, though he seemed thoroughly able to take care of himself, said to Muir, who was taking him on—
"No, I do not spend my entire time over my invention. Mrs. Campbell is so kind as to take me for drives in the environment, to give me a right impression of the beauties of Hertfordshire. For relaxation I play the piano."
"Ha!Musical,eh, Professor?" asked Muir shrewdly. "That's right; so am I. I'm awfully keen on music." He spoke reassuringly.
Mr. Stoendyck looked at him through his glasses, and said without interest—
"Indeed. I find Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, even on the piano, extraordinarily satisfying and refreshing to the mind after the strain of looking at English scenery." He drank a long draught of iced lager.
"Oh! Classical, eh? I'm not up to that. Queen'sHall, eh? That sort of thing."
"I beg your pardon? Is there——Has the Queen a hall in this neighbourhood?"
"How do you mean, Professor?"
"What do you say?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Mrs. Campbell, who managed to hear through her own conversation with Van Buren, called out—
"E say e no understand," and nodded smilingly, seeming to think she had helped matters considerably.
Miss Campbell talked of tennis, matins, hats and the opera to Daphne, but appeared to be absent, and occasionally smiled at the foreigner, who ignored her.
At last the Campbells and their Belgian withdrew, Mrs. Campbell saying that the Prebendary wished them to go to Evensong. Their departure left, as such visits do, a blank and a reaction. Our friends were silent for a minute.
Then Vaughan said—
"I feel crushed, and a little flattened out, too."
"Ifeel as if my brain were made of cotton wool," said Harry.
"Come and sing," suggested Daphne to Muir, and they went off to the drawing-room, from which strains were soon heard aboutIt IS not because,—something or other.
In the middle of the song Daphne played a wrong note, stopped, and said—
"Oh, I wish Cyril was here!"
"So do I. If he can accompany, I wish he was here."
"Oh, go on!"
"It IS not because thy heart is mine"....
The party in the garden listened with a worried expression.
"How about croquet?" suggested Val. "The tapping noise will take it off."
"Yes. Come on."
"You can't," said Romer. "The lawn wants mowing."
"How lovely this place must look at dawn!"
"By Jove! That's an idea, Gillie," said Harry. "It must look glorious."
They were sitting in the rose garden with Valentia. It was still quite light, though the sunset glow had nearly faded. There was a rich mellow tone in the sky, a promise of peace, a feeling that it was the end of the day, which, combined with the almost cloyingly sweet scent of the roses, was enough to make any one feel poetical.
"To think we've never seen the sun rise here!" exclaimed Valentia.
Romer here joined them, smoking a cigarette.
"Hasn't Romer ever seen the sun rise here?" Vaughan asked.
"Never," said Romer.
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I suppose because it alwayshappens after I've gone to bed," he answered drily.
"Let's sit up all night and see it to-morrow," suggested Valentia.
"Yes. Capital! Do let us!" said Harry.
Romer did not appear much taken with this scheme.
"Oh no, you mustn'tsitup," said Vaughan. "That's not the way to see it."
"Is there so much difference between staying up and getting up then?" Val asked.
"Yes, indeed, all the difference in the world. You must get up fresh, with the birds."
"What time do birds get up? Is itveryearly?"
"It would do if you were out at three this time of the year, or even at four."
"Well, let's do it!"
"Oh, I don't think I shall," said Harry.
He looked at Valentia.
She answered—
"You might make a sketch, you know, of the early birds getting up to catch the worms. But—I don't think I shall. Anyhow, notto-morrowathalf-past three."
"All right," said Harry with a nod, "we won't. Don't tell Daphne, or she'll be out at 3.15 to the tick, to take a snapshot of the dawn."
"A snapshot of the dawn! Wouldn't that be sacrilege?"
"Young girls are always inclined to that. They're so prosaic," said Harry, getting up. "I must go and see what Van is doing."
He walked away with his usual quick, supple step and casual bearing. They watched his slim figure as he went. Then Romer followed him, slowly.
Vaughan turned to Valentia and said: "I shouldn't if I were you."
"Wouldn't what?"
"Why, meet Harry at half-past three to-morrow morning in the rose garden."
"Good gracious! I never thought of doing such a thing. Besides, it was your idea.... As a matter of fact, I really assure you it wouldn't be here. It would be in the orchard if anywhere. There is the loveliest cherry-tree there, with a seat all round it."
"How jolly! I'd like to see it. Will you give me the key?"
"Who told you it was kept locked?"
She looked rather annoyed.
"You did, but not intentionally."
"I don't see that you have really any right to suppose——Why shouldn't I go in my own orchard, at any hour I like?"
"But, Val—of course you ought to go in your own orchard. But why don't you meet Romer there?"
"Oh, Gillie, really!..."
"He is so straight, so good-looking, and, under all that manner, he's exactly like Vesuvius. Yes. Fancy, you're living with a volcano and you don't appreciate it!"
"Gillie, it's really rather stupid of you to put things like that. It isn't a question of liking either one personoranother. If Romer were ill, or anything like that, don't youknow——"
"I know you'd devote yourself to him, like a sister or a mother. You'd put Harry aside for a time as a pleasure that mustn't be indulged in. Now that's just where you're wrong. No!Iwant to see you being ever so good and kind to dear Harry as a duty to a ne'er-do-well of a cousin; and regarding Romer——"
She did not answer.
"My point is," he went on, "that it's really too distressingly conventional of you to suppose that because you happen to be legally married there can be no sort of romance. Only comradeship, or perhaps affectionate sentiment? That's what you believe."
"Isn't it always so?"
"Most often, I grant. That's generally through the man's point of view. But Romer is an exception. He's as much in love as if he had no hope of ever being within a mile of you."
She seemed rather flattered. "Do you really think so? But even that isn't everything."
"Oh, there's a great deal to be done with Romer," was Vaughan's reply.
He spoke with dreamy significance, and she was silent. Then she exclaimed, turning round suddenly—
"I suppose what you really mean is that Harry doesn't care a bit about me?"
"No, I don't. But he cares a bit about a lot of people, and things. He's superficial, and he has no courage."
"No courage?Harry!"
"He'd crumble up in a crisis if a strong man took him in hand."
"That's all nonsense." She was growing angry. "Hasn't he been up in an aeroplane, and done—oh, all sorts of things? I call Harry daring and brave!"
"That's all vanity. All that is show and vanity. Oh, Valentia, do forgive me."
"I'll try.... here he is."
He was seen coming towards them again. Her anger flickered out at once.
"I suppose he thinks we've been here long enough," she said, smiling as women do at such symptoms.
"Of course he does. Vanity—just vanity." Vaughan strolled away.
"Look here! What were you two talking about?"
"Nothing. About you, Harry."
"Rubbish. What was he talking about?"
"You, only you."
"I can't see that that chap's so brilliant! It seems to me he's just like anybody else. And his work shows it too, really. No soul, no real heart in it. All from the outside."
"Nonsense, Harry, nobody is more kind-hearted, more——"
"Look here, Val, I won't have it. Do you hear?"
"Have what, Harry?"
He lowered his voice. "I won't have it. You must go back. It isn't thatImind. But Romer will soon think it extraordinary, your sitting out alone so long."
"No, he won't."
"All right then, he won't. He must be an ass," said Harry angrily. "I don't know what he's thinking of. Hasn't he got eyes?"
"Yes, of course he has."
"And eyelids too," said Harry. "I dare say he pretends not to see that Vaughan admires you. Too indolent to bother about it."
"Really. Harry—you go too far. Are you thinking of pointing it out?"
She got up.
"One second," said Harry pleadingly. "It's cruel of you to go now."
"I thought you said we'd better get back?"
"Your hands look so lovely by this light," he spoke in his softest voice.
"We really must go."
"Then at half-past three. I'll bring my sketchbook. Do you know where the key is? Perhaps you've lost it. You are so dreadfully careless." He now spoke in the tone of a reproving husband.
"I've got it. Do you think we'd better? I'm rather tired. Shall you be able to wake?"
Harry turned away.
"All right, it doesn't matter, Val. I shall be going soon, and then——"
She followed him quickly.
"No, no, Harry. Of course."
He gave her a grateful look. They joined the group on the little verandah in front of the house. Van Buren was sitting in the corner and seemed in the depths of depression. From the windows could be heard once more strains of music. Daphne was playing an accompaniment. Muir had again begun the song, and got a little further into it—"It is not because thy heart is mine, mine only, mine alone." But Vaughan came up promptly and stopped it.
What a delicate air there was in the garden! There had been a little rain in the night, but Valentia supposed it to be dew. Every little sound seemed the softest music, to the sound of which little dainty things seemed to be dancing in the air. The Green Gate, a red Georgian house, seen in the early glamour with all its blinds down, except one, seemed like a thing half asleep with one eye open.
For a moment she was a little frightened. He was late. She had perhaps got up for nothing. But no, it was worth it. It was lovely here.
Another eye of the house slowly opened, and soon Romeo, or Paolo, or Faust, appeared. True, he was disguised as a flannelled fool, with a sketch-book under his arm. But itwasFaust, or Romeo, or Paolo, all the same. He looked very handsome. The thought of scoring off other people in the house had raised his spirits and had even made him wake up in time.Valentia's conversation with Vaughan, whom she knew to be honest and believed to be brilliant, had left a certain insidious influence on her which would tell gradually, and yet their talk had had rather a contradictory effect for the moment. She wanted to prove to herself that he was wrong. And Harry felt that his time was growing short. Very soon he must put an end to it all.
This thought made him more affectionate. It occurred to him for a moment that he would tell her in the orchard; but, of course, he didn't. Every day he thought he would tell her, and something always happened to prevent it. Besides, there would have to be a quarrel anyhow at the end, so why make it longer than necessary?
They sat down under the cherry-tree.
"Fancy you, Valentia, a minion of the moon, rising before dawn! Let me look at you. You fill me with wonder and joy."
"Did you mind getting upverymuch, Harry?"
"Itwasrather hard. Listen!... That's a thrush, making a scene with another thrush in the tree."
"Is it? How do you know?"
"Of course it is! How doyouknow things? How did you know exactly what to wear, Val?I knew you had clothes for every possible occasion; but still, to choose theexactright dress to put on to meet your cousin at dawn in the orchard seems—well, rather extraordinary. Pinkish blue—or is it bluish pink?—to match the sky. How jolly! It fastens in front."
"Well, of course I couldn't expect Ogburn to get up in the middle of the night."
"And no hatpins for once, thank goodness."
"Well, if wesat uptill now I shouldn't be wearing a hat, should I?"
"Don't argue. It's too early."
"It isn't really early. It's very late."
"Oh, Val! You're being logical."
He took her hands and looked at them, and quoted—