"They are pale with the pallor of ivories,But they blush at the tips like a curved sea-shell."
"They are pale with the pallor of ivories,But they blush at the tips like a curved sea-shell."
"Oh, Harry!"
He was thinking. He looked almost miserable. "I don't see—I must admit—how I shall ever be able to leave your hands!"
She looked at him suspiciously.
"Why should you? What do you mean?"
"Nothing. I only meant I couldn't...."
"Oh!"
"What's that?... Some one coming along the lawn."
"Doesn't it sound curious?" she said—"sorustly!"
"Who can it be? Surely your friend Vaughan couldn't get up at this hour."
"Nonsense! Of course not. They're coming here." She jumped up.
"Go and open the gate at once," said Harry, giving her the key. "I'll wait here a minute." While she obeyed he used a good deal of language. He now felt that he would give all he possessed to keep her there five minutes longer.
"Fancy! It's Romer!" exclaimed Valentia. "He hasn't seen me yet."
"Go to him atonce. Tell him you got up to see the sun rise. I'll come directly and join you. Oh, confound it!Dolook sharp. Seem pleased to see him." He spoke in a harsh tone of command.
She ran to meet Romer, saying jokingly, "Fancy meeting you!"
"I thought you'd be here. I went to your room and found you were out. Thought I'd get up early."
"I'm so glad.Isn'tit lovely and worth seeing here? Come and pick some fruit in the orchard."
"No, thanks."
"Oh,do! Harry's devouring gooseberries. He's sketching the sky."
"Why doesn't Harry come?" said Romer.
He had no expression, and it was alwaysimpossible to guess by his looks or his tone what he was thinking or feeling, except when he smiled.
"Here he is."
Harry joined them.
"Good gracious, old boy! Who in the world—! What on earth made you come out so early?"
Romer now smiled and looked at Valentia admiringly.
"Gardener's not up yet. Thought perhaps I'd mow the lawn," he said apologetically.
Valentia had been hurt at the tone in which Harry had given his orders, and turned from him to help to find the mowing-machine.
"Doesn't she look jolly at sunrise? All that pink and mauve in the sky tones in so well. It seems to suit her. That's how she really should be painted," said Harry, in the tone of an artist admiring his model. "Don't you think so?"
"Yes," said Romer.
"She looks like a golden rose," Harry went on. He wanted to please Val, who he saw was annoyed with him, and to emphasise the openness of his admiration to Romer. "Doesn't she?"
"Quite," said her husband.
Harry felt the morning was spoilt and the situation absurd. He could not bear to be thwarted in any way. He went back to his own room, bounced angrily on to his bed, and went to sleep again, after having seen Valentia through thewindow helping to push the mower, and saying to himself—
"How like a woman! I shall go up to town with Van Buren and send a wire to Alec."
This was his revenge.
Their momentary fears about Romer were completely dissipated. He seemed exactly as usual. As a rule he was even-tempered. Not many people had seen him put out, though he could be very angry, except with Valentia. During this day he seemed, for him, a little irritable. Perhaps, Val thought, through getting up too early.
Harry went up to town with Van Buren for the day, intending to return the same evening. He soon recovered himself in the course of copious confidences in the train. As soon as he had arrived in London he began to count the minutes before he should go back.
Valentia expected the elder Mrs. Wyburn to lunch.
"What shall we do with her to-day?" Val asked Daphne. "She must be kept in a good temper, because it's the last time she'll come down before going to Bournemouth. It's rather a pity they've all gone. Romer is sure to say the wrong thing to her—let out some trifle that we have been carefully concealing for months—praise up Harry, or something."
"Doesn't she like Harry?"
"Since he went to see her she likes him for herself, but not for me."
"What cheek! But he's not here."
"No, if he were she might like him again all right. Then, Romer talks too slowly for her. Her mind works quicker than his, and one can only deal with him by racing on in front, and turning round to beckon. With Mrs. Wyburn there are only two things that are any use—dash and volubility. It's difficult to keep the thing going when she's alone with us."
"Well, why not pass the time this afternoon by returning the Campbells' visit, and take Mrs. Wyburn with us to 'The Angles'?" Daphne suggested.
"Oh no! It's treating them almost like royalty to go so soon. And there's the Belgian man."
"Doesn't she like Belgians then, Val?"
"I've never asked her. Only, don't you see, it isn't that but the Belgian is what Harry calls a blighter—a beano-blighter; and so is Mrs. Wyburn, and it doesn't do to have two beano-blighters in the same party."
"Ah, I see; they'd clash. Whatisa beano-blighter exactly, Val?"
"A person who blights beanos. Who makes every one a little uncomfortable, casts a gloom over entertainments—has to be taken in handand dealt with separately from the others—doesn't blend, you know."
"You mean some one who isn't the life and soul of the party?"
"No, I don't. That's almost as bad in its way. In fact, the life-and-soul-of-the-party person casts almost as great a gloom on the rest as a blighter."
"Oh dear! Yes, I see."
"We must meet her at the station in the motor. I shall put on my blue serge and my plain sailor. She mustn't see me in the garden without a hat, nor in a real one. You do the same, Daphne."
"But my sailor's too large in the head, and that makes it fall over my eyes, and that gives it a Frenchy look, likeL'Art et la Mode," protested Daphne.
"Stuff it with paper. Here's theBystander."
"Oh, isn't it a pity? There's such a pretty picture of——"
"Oh, don't bother."
Mrs. Wyburn was gracious to-day, and all was going well when, about half-past five, a telegram, reply paid, was brought. It was addressed to Harry.
"What shall we do?"
"Why, keep it till he comes. He'll be back to dinner," Romer said.
"Suppose it's something urgent," said Val, seeming a little agitated. "Don't you think perhaps we ought to open it? He won't mind."
"You can't. It's addressed to Harry," said Romer.
Mrs. Wyburn's quick eyes took in some signs of tension, but she continued giving them advice about the garden. She thought the flowers too florid, and was always a little shocked at the extravagant scent and exuberance of the roses. She seemed to think they should be kept more in their place—not allowed to climb all over the house, and romp or lean about the garden doing just what they liked. She had winced in the drawing-room, relented in the dining-room, and refrained, really, only in the kitchen, that she had insisted upon seeing. It was the only room to the decoration of which she gave whole-hearted praise and approval. The cooking at the Green Gate she admitted to be perfect, without pretension. In fact, she thought everything in the house a little overdone, except the mutton.
"I can't think who that wire can be from," Val said several times to Daphne when her mother-in-law had gone. She meant that she could think.
"Well, you'll know directly. Harry's arriving."
Harry found it in the hall, and came in with it.
"You open it for me," he said, giving it to Val.
Since his last instructions to Alec he felt perfectly safe.
She read—
"Thousand thanks awfully bucked at letter at Queens' Hotel Cowes for three days could you join us there wire reply fondest love and kisses.Johnson."
"Thousand thanks awfully bucked at letter at Queens' Hotel Cowes for three days could you join us there wire reply fondest love and kisses.
Johnson."
On arriving in London, Vaughan found his secretary with the usual heaps of letters. One envelope, addressed in a large and rather infantine hand, was put aside for him. The note ran—
"The Baldfaced Stag, Edgware."Dear Mr. Vaughan,"I eard only yesterday that the play you kindly sent me and mother to was wrote by you, I call it a shame you didn't tell me before, we saw the name on the programme, but never thought it could be the same but yesterday mother saw a piece in the paper about you in the weekly dispatch and she said it was the same, I'm sory I said the people in the play went on silly I beg pardon for calling the play silly I wouldnt have done it if Id known, so hope youre not angry, they seemed to me to go on silly, but I dont reelly know much aboutthose kind of ladies and gentlemen, we saw the piece in the paper only yesterday and mother said it was the same, we hope you will soon come again to tea the calf is better believe me yours truly"Gladis Adelaide Brill."
"The Baldfaced Stag, Edgware.
"Dear Mr. Vaughan,
"I eard only yesterday that the play you kindly sent me and mother to was wrote by you, I call it a shame you didn't tell me before, we saw the name on the programme, but never thought it could be the same but yesterday mother saw a piece in the paper about you in the weekly dispatch and she said it was the same, I'm sory I said the people in the play went on silly I beg pardon for calling the play silly I wouldnt have done it if Id known, so hope youre not angry, they seemed to me to go on silly, but I dont reelly know much aboutthose kind of ladies and gentlemen, we saw the piece in the paper only yesterday and mother said it was the same, we hope you will soon come again to tea the calf is better believe me yours truly
"Gladis Adelaide Brill."
He instantly wrote back—
"Dear Miss Brill,"I amsorelieved and thankful to hear the calf is better, all the more because I had no idea it had been indisposed. I fancied, though, it was looking a little pale the last time I had the pleasure of meeting it in the field. Please don't think again of your criticism. It gave me very great pleasure. You must think me very foolish. You could say nothing that I would not like except to ask me not to come and see you. I am very busy just now and so have little time for afternoon calls, but will come one of these days soon."Yours always,"Gilbert Hereford Vaughan."
"Dear Miss Brill,
"I amsorelieved and thankful to hear the calf is better, all the more because I had no idea it had been indisposed. I fancied, though, it was looking a little pale the last time I had the pleasure of meeting it in the field. Please don't think again of your criticism. It gave me very great pleasure. You must think me very foolish. You could say nothing that I would not like except to ask me not to come and see you. I am very busy just now and so have little time for afternoon calls, but will come one of these days soon.
"Yours always,"Gilbert Hereford Vaughan."
He waited a moment, and then added—
"I will turn up to-morrow at four. Try not to forget me till then."
For the rest of the day he was in high spirits.The letter seemed to keep him up through the various little bothers of the day. He had been going to France for the summer. He admitted to himself that this semi-flirtation was keeping him in England. He didn't like the idea of going away very long from the possibility of turning up at the "Bald-faced Stag."
The explanation Harry gave about Johnson's telegram satisfied Valentia for the time, as he declined the invitation to Cowes, but the incident left an uneasy feeling in Val's mind. She could not bear to own to herself that he was deceiving her, and he hadn't the courage to give it away yet, not that he cared so very much about hurting her, but he was happier at the Green Gate than anywhere else. He liked the house, the atmosphere, and Romer; but what kept him most was, of course, that curious charm Valentia had for him, which was perhaps stronger than ever because he knew that the end was not far off. He often thought he was a fool not to have taken the opportunity to break it off on this occasion. He couldn't stand the idea of not seeing her, just because of the way her hair grew on her forehead! So low, and in such thick waves! Alec Walmer's hair, also fair, was thin and unmeaning. She had a low forehead, and yet the hair began high up. In the evening when it was carefully arranged, and the iron had enteredinto it, it looked like a stiff transformation, even worse than when left to nature.
But of course, in spite of the reconciliation, a residue of mistrust remained, and on his side a sensation of restlessness which left him irritable; less amiable and pleasant than usual.
They were sitting on the little terrace. He was smoking and reading the paper. He suddenly threw it down and said—
"How quiet you are, Val! Why don't you talk?"
"I don't think I've got anything to say."
"You seem depressed," he said, rather aggressively.
"I feel a little depressed."
Harry gave expression to the usual injustice of the unfaithful.
"What a mistake women make in being gloomy! How foolish it is. Shall I tell you the key of the whole situation between men and women?"
"Do."
"Well, dear, it's just—asmile. Never be dull, never be ill, never be depressed. Be gay—always gay. That's what men like—that's the one thing that they go out for and come in for—a smile."
"Your ideal of a woman seems to be a Cheshire cat," she answered, looking rather amused."Your motto is, like the man inThe Arcadians: Always Merry and Bright. Well, I'm sure there's a good deal in it. But I'm not usually accused of being a dreary person."
"Of course you're not; you're charming, lively, amusing, sympathetic. That's your great attraction, Val. But the last few days you seem rather to have lost it."
"You can hardly resent my feeling a little down, Harry. One or two little things that have happened lately have made me anxious."
"Never be anxious. You ought to trust, trust—always trust."
"Oh, that's all very well! That wire...."
"Are we going to have that all over again? I thought I'd explained." He assumed the air of a patient martyr.
"I know youexplainedall right. Well, I won't think about it any more. Don't be horrid, Harry.... Have you seen this week'sPunch? There's something in it simplytooheavenly—such a joke! Let me read it to you."
"It's very sweet of you—but do you ever realise——I wonder if it's ever struck you, Val, that men aren't always in the mood for heavenly jokes? There are times when one likes to think—to see life as it is—to discuss abstract things, even."
"Oh! Well ... what do you think of Daphne's dress? Isn't it pretty? It was made by Ogburn, all out of nothing, in no time."
He looked at Daphne, who was sitting under a tree reading Cyril's last letter over again.
"It's all right. It suitsher. I don't callthata serious subject."
"What subject would you like, then?"
"Well—Romer, for instance. Where is he?"
"Talking to the gardener about mowing. Do you want him? I'll call him if you like."
"Dear Val, it's not quite like you to be ironical tome.... You ought not to laugh at Romer either. I'm complex, perhaps—I know I am; but it jars on me when you do that."
She stared at him.
"Look here—I know I'm tiresome," said Harry, returning to his usual caressing manner. "Don't take any notice of it. It's—the weather, I think, or want of exercise. I'll go and improvise a little."
He pushed back his chair, and, with a parting look of forgiveness, he went into the house and began to improvise (rather dismally) a well-known funeral march. Or perhaps it was only a coincidence. Perhaps he would have thought of it if Chopin hadn't.
Harry was only musical by fits and starts, and generally either to impress some one or becausehe was out of temper. Val never regarded it as a good sign when he grappled with the Steinway.
In ten minutes he had grown tired of his mood of melody, and strolled into the rose garden with a book.
Yes, certainly Harry was restless.
"You're very quiet, Val," remarked Daphne, as they flew along in the motor on their way to call on the Prebendary's wife at The Angles.
Both sisters wore little cottage bonnets, blue motor-veils, and large loose white coats with high collars.
"How can I talk when we're exceeding the speed limit?" said Valentia.
"You usually do. Is anything the matter?"
"No, nothing at all.... Harry's been horrid lately."
"I suppose heisoccasionally."
"No, he's not. He's got the artistic temperament, and of course he can't always be the same, poor dear."
"What a pity one can't be an artist without having the artistic temperament! It always seems to mean being late for meals, and losingyour temper, or being amusing when every one wants to go to bed."
"As a matter of fact," said Valentia, "I never knew any one with less of it than Harry. There isn't a more hard-headed business man in the world in his way, though hehasread poetry and plays the piano sometimes, and paints. He is an artist too ... but—well, not in any of the recognised arts.... I hear Miss Luscombe and Rathbone—I mean Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone—have gone to Oberammergau for their honeymoon."
"Oh! Is that the latest thing to do?"
"Of course not, Daphne, but she thinks it is. Miss Luscombe has spent her life in trying to catch the last omnibus and always just missing it, and she's not going to leave off now just because she happens to be married. Here we are!"
The Prebendary's wife received them very graciously. Her waist looked longer than ever, and her skirt seemed more than usually abnormal in width. She did all that she could to entertain them. She showed them her son Garstin's map of Buckinghamshire, and then said—
"I'll send for Mr. Stoendyck. He's upstairs inventing. You can'tthinkhow clever he is and how hard he works. It's really wonderful! We often leave him alone for hours to think thingsout, and sometimes he plays sonatas; he says it refreshes him. He really is an extraordinary man."
Mr. Stoendyck came in, looking very martial and scientific and pleased with himself, as though he had just invented gunpowder. Mrs. Campbell began as usual to talk baby language, and play a kind of Dumb Crambo at him. He never seemed able to guess the word.
"I hope we haven't interrupted you in your studies," said Val politely.
"She say she ope she not interrupt. Work, you know. Oeuvre—Arbeit."
"I was just amusing myself with the very witty paper from Germany,Kladderadatsch. It is very funny," he said.
"It sounds funny," said Val sympathetically.
"What I find in England is that you're all wonderfully serious, wonderfully courteous, wonderfully kind"—he bowed to his hostess; "but, you'll excuse my saying so, I don't find enough wit or lightness for my temperament. For humour I have to go to Belgium or Germany."
He spoke with intense solemnity.
Mrs. Campbell now began to translate him even to himself.
"You say you like fun, wit—just fun to make laugh?" She made strange signs with her fingers.
He did not appear to understand the code. He stared at her with a frown, and rasped on seriously—
"I find a few comical jokes occasionally a great relief after my heavy work. It is very deep work."
"I suppose it would be indiscreet to ask what the invention is?" said Valentia, smiling.
"Not at all. There is nothing indiscreet whatever in your curiosity, Mrs. Wyburn."
He took a scone covered with butter and swallowed it in an extraordinarily short time, and in an ingenious manner.
"No, there's no indiscretion in the matter at all. Do not trouble yourself on that score. It is merely the natural interest that a cultivated and intellectual English lady would naturally take when she hears of an extraordinary invention from another country." He bowed, and having thus explained her to herself, he then ate another scone.
"She say she want to know, you know," nodded Mrs. Campbell, putting up a playful and threatening finger with dignified coquetry and a stony smile. (She was subject to fits of this kind of marble archness unexpectedly.)
"Yes. So I understood."
The Belgian was looking at Daphne with distinct admiration. Of course Miss Campbellcame and sat down beside him. Women always follow their instinct to come and sit on the other side of any man whom they regard as their property. They seem to think that merely by sitting on the other side they protect him from freebooters. As a matter of fact, it would be more sensible, if to distract his attention were the object, to sit opposite with some one else.
Mr. Stoendyck turned his back on her completely, and said to Daphne—
"Very charming, those motor-veils, and the whole costume. At the same time, while being thoroughly practical and sensible, it is, if I may say so, extremely becoming."
He bowed with a condescending air, and went on—
"The English young girl—at least, such specimens as I have seen in the neighbourhood, especially in the country—seems to me a wonderfully beautiful object. In Belgium we are getting on, but we have not reached, as yet, the point of freedom combined with modesty that you constantly see over here. Particularly, as I say, in rural districts."
He then made what can only be described, vulgarly, as a distinct 'eye.'
Both the Campbells looked uneasy.
"The Prebendary will be in soon," said Mrs. Campbell. "He promised faithfully to comeback to tea to-day. He also is a very busy man. He come in soon," she spoke reassuringly.
Daphne was suddenly taken with afou rireand began to laugh helplessly. Val, seeing her condition, and knowing that when she once started there was no hope but in immediate flight, took leave.
They were cordially asked to come again by Mrs. Campbell. But Mr. Stoendyck invited them to lunch, and wanted to fix a day and hour. Mrs. Campbell, however, declined his invitation for them. Mrs. Wyburn, she said, must have a great many engagements.
They left Stoendyck standing in the hall, looking sentimental.
"All foreigners not of the Latin race go on like that," said Val, as they drove back. "They may be scientific, or soldiers, philosophers, or musicians, but if they're Germans or Belgians or Austrians, or anything of that sort, they always get bowled over by a young girl, a blue ribbon, plumpness, or fair hair."
"But I'm very thin and dark," said Daphne angrily.
"I don't care if you are. You're a pretty girl, you're unmarried, you've got blue chiffon round your head—and there it is.... I don't mean Prussian officers, of course."
"Theywould appreciateyou, I suppose you mean!"
"One can't say. They'd probably take on anything."
Valentia took out the little looking-glass from her motor-bag, looked at it, put it back, and added—
"Anything possible, I mean."
"Go on, Val."
"Go on how?"
"Telling me things. You're so interesting, you know such a lot. Now, about the Latin races—wouldn't they like—er—me?"
"Of course they would. But they'd like you better if you were married to Cyril or any one. Frenchmen and Italians always want their love-making or flirtations to have something in it of the nature of ascore. They love scoring off a third person, whoever it may be,—whether it's their friend's wife, or their wife's friend, or anything."
"They're not sincere, then?"
"Don't be silly. If they weren't sincere, why are there nothing but unwritten-law crimes all over France and Italy? And why do Parisians think and talk of ... nothing else! They'resincereall right: it's their hobby. Italians, of course, are more jealous and faithful, and Parisians are frightfully vain—there's a gooddeal of a sort of snobbism about it. They love to show off. That's why they're so keen on dress."
"Do you think," said Daphne, with sudden anxiety, "that if you don't dress to perfection you can't keep a man's love? Idohope not! I mean because when I'm married to Cyril I shan't be able to afford to wear anything at all, except a clean blouse which I shall have to iron out myself, like inHearth and Home."
Valentia shook her head.
"Dressing to perfection doesn't make men love you, silly. It only makes women hate you. And I never have yet seen the advantage of that."
"Oh, then, do Parisians want other women to hate you?" asked Daphne. Her sister hesitated.
"Sometimes. Very often they don't. They want you to be admired by other people, whoever they are, men or women. But in Paris dress counts in a different sort of way—it means more—it stands for more. Oh, don't bother!"
"Well, give me a straightforward Englishman!" exclaimed Daphne.
"Yes, indeed!" replied Val. "That Belgian Herr, anyhow, doesn't count. I can't think why Mrs. Preb. and Miss Campbell are so much in love with him."
"Isn't it funny? Why do you think it is, Val?"
"Perhaps it's because he's a man. You see, they're accustomed to curates."
Miss Brill had twisted up her hair and put on her Sunday dress to receive Vaughan.
To harmonise with theDickens'sgarden it ought to have been white muslin with flounces and a pink sash. But it was a quite long, dark blue Liberty satin, made by a smart dressmaker in the Finchley Road. It had a high collar, an Empire waist, and gathers.
Her mother was delighted with it. Gladys had not been quite satisfied herself, and had tried to tie it in round the ankles with concealed string, to make it look more like a nobble skirt, as she called it.
Her almost too abundant hair had been piled over a pad, which gave her the appearance of having a swollen head. Yet even so she looked lovely, rather like an old-fashioned picture in the Academy ofI'se Gan'ma, or something ofthe kind, suggesting a baby disguised as a grown-up-person.
Vaughan went through the usual ritual of asking after Mrs. Brill—he rather hurried Mr. Brill over his remark about the finest woman one would see in a day's march—then admired the weather, ordered tea, and asked for Miss Brill.
Gladys came and sat down with a rather shy, self-conscious air.
She soon lost it, however, and began to get natural again.
"Oh, Mr. Vaughan! Ineverwas more surprised than I was at that piece in the paper! And mother come over quite queer, she was so surprised. You were kind in your letter to forgive me for being rude. Who'd ever have thought you was clever?"
"Who, indeed! But, Gladys, why this get-up? Why are you dressed up in satin and dark colours on a summer day?"
"Why, mother said a nice navy blue was always useful. I'd rather have had a Cambridge blue myself. Mother says navy blue's so ladylike. Don't you like it?"
"Charming. But I don't like what you've done to your hair."
"Don't you, though? Fancy! Well, I don't seem to care much for it myself. It's a Pompadour, you know—a pad."
"Take it off," said Vaughan.
"Oh, I can't!"
"All right,Iwill. Come in the field."
"Well, I don't mind if you do. I'll say I took my hair down because it was heavy."
"You've tried to spoil yourself, but you haven't succeeded. Why did you do it, Gladys?"
"Seeing you was clever, I thought pr'aps I'd better try to look more grown-up."
"Ah! what a mistake! Your great charm is that you're such a regular J.F."
"What's that?"
"Ajeune fille."
"What does that mean? What's a J.F. in English?"
"A jolly flapper."
"Oh, I say!"
In the field Vaughan, with several interruptions and reproaches for being a caution, managed to take the pad off her head and to throw it in the field. But an unfortunate thing happened. All the corn-coloured hair fell down over his face and he had kissed her—by accident—before he knew it.
"Oh, I say! You are a caution!" was her only remark. But she did not laugh, and as she hastily did a little amateur coiffing, he thought she looked slightly annoyed. At any rate, she hadn'tmuch more to say to him, and he went back to London almost immediately, feeling quite absurdly agitated about such an unimportant trifle.
An hour later, when quietly at home in his study, Vaughan was suddenly seized by that species of madness that has been known to wreck careers, "to launch a thousand ships," to cause all kinds of chaos. It was that terribleonce-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine-I-must-and-shall-possess-herfeeling in its most acute form. Most men have known it at some time in their lives. He thought of Harry de Freyne, and felt noble and superior in contrast to whathisconduct would have been, as he sat down and wrote with intense pleasure—
"Darling Gladys,"I love you. Will you marry me? Please try. I'm writing to your father. Don't keep me waiting long for the answer."Yours for always,"Gillie."
"Darling Gladys,
"I love you. Will you marry me? Please try. I'm writing to your father. Don't keep me waiting long for the answer.
"Yours for always,"Gillie."
He then wrote a long and sensible letter to Mr. Brill; all business, respect, and urgency, saying he knew that Gladys was very young, but that he would make her happy, and so forth.
These two letters he sent off by express messengerin a taxicab to the "Bald-faced Stag," and then sat down to dinner.
What a dinner! And what an evening he spent! He planned a long journey—what fun to show the child new places and things! Why shouldn't he marry the charming, refined, and beautiful daughter of an hotel-keeper? He decided even on alterations in the house, and he meant to be ecstatically happy.
What did he care for people? He had never lived either toépaterthebourgeoisor to satisfy the ideal of the gentleman next door. He was going to do somethingheliked!...
He woke up the next morning at six o'clock with a ghastly chilly horror on him. What had he done? Had he been mad? To marry Miss Brill, the daughter of the landlord of a little suburban public-house! A girl of sixteen, pretty enough certainly, but with no pretensions to being a lady, no possibility of having anything in common with him. But it wasn't so much the question of what people would say—of course, most of the women he knew would drop him, and the men would laugh at him and make love to her—but, how long would it last? How long would this strange mania endure? Perhaps not a week. The poor child would have an awful time, too. She was much happier as she was.
Well! He was a sportsman, and had taken the risk. He must wait now. At the back of his mind he was wondering how he could get out of it.
He had not to wait long. His letters were answered by the first post. Evidently, the "Bald-faced Stag" had been kept up late that night to reply in time.
Gladys wrote very respectfully that she was very sorry she hadn't told him before, but she was privately engaged to the son of the landlord of the Green Man at Stanmore: the Eldest Son, she wrote with pride (as though he would inherit the title). She was awfully sorry. Besides, she was going to be a manicure, first, for two years, and then settle down at Stanmore. Her fiancé was twenty-one. She hoped Mr. Vaughan would come over to tea very soon, and she thought his letter was very kind, and remained his truly, Gladys Brill.
Mr. Brill had written a long and slightly rambling letter which suggested rough copies and even some assistance from the old vintages of the "Bald-faced Stag." He refused most firmly, though thoroughly sensible of the honour done him by Mr. Vaughan's offer, but he couldn't go back on his word to his friend at the Green Man. The arrangement had been made, when Gladys and the son were in their cradles, byhim and his pal of the Green Man and he couldn't go back on his word. And Gladys liked the young chap; and it was a great honour, indeed, that Mr. Vaughan had done them, and it would have been splendid for Gladys in the worldly sense. But there! it was better, perhaps, not to mix up Stations. Mr. Brill repeated this sentiment over and over again, always using a capital S for station—(as though Vaughan had expressed an insane desire to confuse Victoria with the Great Western). And he remained very respectfully, Tom Brill.
"A manicure in Bond Street and then the landlady of a common country inn! Never! She shan't! I'll go down and persuade her. I'll make them come round."
Vaughan was so hurt and disappointed that he felt he could never smile again.
But he did.
When the sisters came back from their drive Harry was sitting on the little marble terrace readingCount Florio and Phillis K.and smoking cigarettes. With almost conjugal unfairness he complained that Valentia always went out just before he arrived. In fact, he had begged her to get the visit over that afternoon, as he intended to be late.
Valentia sat down and began a lively account of "The Angles," but he implored her not to describe those awful people at home, and particularly not to tell him anything about that poisonous Belgian. Then he told Val that blue didn't suit her, and, when she agreed with him, petulantly complained that she had no ideas of her own.
"But I had an idea of my own; only now you say it's wrong."
"So it is. But, even if it is wrong, you should stick to it. You should have more individuality."
"What an awful word," she said.
"What's the matter with the word?"
"Nothing. It's so long."
"You're talking nonsense, Valentia."
"Well, why shouldn't I talk nonsense? I'm sure I've heard you say there's nothing so depressing as a woman with no nonsense about her."
"I know. But there needn't be nothing else."
"Harry, are you trying to quarrel? If so I'd better go away."
"Oh, all right! Very well! Do as you like," said Harry. "It seems a curious way to treat a guest: to go out when you expect him, and then the moment you come in to make an excuse to leave him alone again. But please yourself!"
He took up his book and turned away.
Valentia went into the house, to her room, and sat down opposite the looking-glass with a sigh. It was at moments like these that she sometimes thought, with a slight reaction, of Romer. Romer was never capricious, never irritable, never trying. It was true that he rarely answered her except in monosyllables, but yet she knew that he delighted in and tacitly encouraged her fluency. He did not respond to every idea she expressed as Harry did (when Harry was in a good temper), but she knew she had no better audience. His extreme quietnessmight be admitted, occasionally, to cast a slight gloom, but negatively what enormous advantages his silence had! Romer never scolded, never laid down the law; never thought it necessary to give her long, minute, detailed accounts of his impressions of art, or life, or literature; never insisted on pointing out, as if it were a matter of life and death, precisely where he differed in his opinions of a book, a play, or an incident, from the criticisms in the daily papers. Nor did he refer to some annoying past incident half a dozen times a day as a sealed subject. He had other qualities. He could take tickets, he could sign cheques (and even seemed to like doing it). He could see about things. He wasn't selfish. Yes, Valentia thought, when she saw Harry at his worst, that perhaps she didn't really quite appreciate her husband. How irritating Harry would have been in that capacity!
Daphne came in, and Valentia went on, as usual, with her thoughts aloud.
"Wouldn't Harry be a maddening husband?" she said as she brushed out her hair.
"Oh! Would he? In what way?"
"He'd be so selfish, so obtrusive—he'd always want you to do exactly what he liked, just when he liked, and never when he didn't, or when you liked, I mean."
"How could he like you to do what he liked when he didn't like? That would be expecting too much. I don't see what you mean, Val."
"I only mean that when he's in a bad temper Harry's tiresome, and if he were married he'd be in one oftener."
"Oh dear! Are most men bad-tempered when they're married, Val?"
"Yes. Nearly always."
"What?Then, will Cyril ..."
"Cyril's a pleasant, easy-going boy, but, as you won't have enough money, he's sure to be bad-tempered at times."
"Then aren't married men bad-tempered when they have plenty of money, Val?"
"Oh, if they have a great deal they're awfully bad-tempered, too; because, you see, then they lose it, or if they don't do that they're always trying to enjoy themselves with it and finding the enjoyment flat, and then they blame their wives. Besides, anyhow, having enough money leads to all sorts of complications."
"Oh dear! Then what do you advise?" Daphne hung on Valentia's words, respecting her superior knowledge and experience.
"Oh, I advise enough, anyhow. It can't make you happy, but it can avoid certain troubles. Love in a cottage is only all right for the week-end when you have a nice house in London aswell, and a season ticket or a motor, and electric light and things, and a telephone. Oh, by the way, our telephone here is eating its head off. We never use it. Go and ring up to the grocer, not to forget to send the things, will you, dear? He's got a telephone, too—the only tradesman in the village who has."
"What things isn't he to forget to send?"
"How should I know?—the usual things. He never does forget, but it looks well to remind him, and the 'phone needs exercise."
"All right. But before I go, Val—suppose you can't have the sort of love-in-a-cottage you mean, and there's no fear of your being so rich that it makes you miserable, what is the best thing to do?"
"Why, I suppose the old business in the old novels, a competence with the man of your heart, would do all right."
Daphne looked pleased.
"For six months, anyhow. Or a year or two, perhaps," Val added.
"Oh dear!" cried Daphne again, as she left the room.
"Poor pet," Val murmured to herself. "I hope I'm not teaching her to be cynical."
The only person in the family who did not thoroughly approve of Gladys's decision was her mother. Mrs. Brill thought it sheer madness to decline proposals of a 'gentleman from the West End,' as she called him; so clever and so rich, so handsome and so much in love. She was romantic and yet worldly in her views, and was much excited at the idea of the rivalry for her daughter. There were bitter scenes between Mr. and Mrs. Brill on the subject. Mr. Brill was not romantic nor worldly, but he was very sentimental, and he didn't hold with breaking his word to the Green Man, nor indeed with that mixing up of Stations to which he had already alluded.
Between the opposing views of her parents Gladys became somewhat bewildered. She liked the son of the Green Man (he was in reality only a green boy, but good-looking, and she had always known him), and she wished to beloyal to him. Yet her mother's remarks about Mr. Vaughan began to appeal to her imagination, such as it was. She was rather dazzled and began to weaken. She was at the age when one can really be in love with anybody, and she was flattered. Though she felt she would feel more at home with her childhood's friend, she began, very slightly, to look down upon him when she compared him with Gillie.
Vaughan came down the day after he had received her letter, and behaved precisely as usual.
Mr. Brill, meeting him with a rather shamefaced air in the garden, said straightforwardly—
"Very pleased indeed to see you, Mr. Vaughan. You got my letter, sir?"
"Yes, indeed. To my sorrow. I want to talk to you about it."
"Well, I was sorry to write it, sir, if you take my meaning. But there! Well, Mrs. Brill 'as expressed a wish for a few words with you, if you wouldn't mind."
"I shall be delighted, of course. But—may I see Gladys?"
"Why, yes, sir. Tea and bread and butter? The usual thing?"
"Yes, please. As usual." Mr. Brill lingered.
"Ave some watercress with it, sir," he added sympathetically, "or we've got some very nice little radishes. Ow about them?"
Vaughan nearly laughed.
"No, thank you! I'm afraid they wouldn't be any use to me, Mr. Brill."
"Ha, ha! You will have your joke!"
Mr. Brill went in and told his wife that Mr. Vaughan was "sitting there looking that miserable it was enough to make one's heart ache."
With this satisfactory intelligence he sent Gladys into the garden.
She was all blushes and shyness. Her hair had gone back into the long plait, and she wore her schoolgirl dress again.
"You're too proud, Gladys!" he said reproachfully. "Why did you never tell me of your engagement?"
"Why, I didn't ardly count it to interest you, Mr. Vaughan. Besides, it's not to be for two years."
"Are you in love with him?"
"Why, what a question! Ilikehim. He's a nice boy."
"I suppose he's very much in love with you?"
"Oh, he's all right."
"That was a very cruel letter you wrote me, Gladys."
"I was afraid you'd think it rude," she answered apologetically.
"No, dear. It isn't rude to refuse a proposal. You can't accept them all, can you?"
"You've made a wretched tea, Mr. Vaughan. Is there anything else you'd like?"
"Yes, I want to go in the field again, like the day before yesterday."
"Was it only the day before yesterday? So it was. A lot seems to ave appened since. Well, come along."
She looked such an absolute child as she climbed the gate that Gillie felt almost ashamed of his proposal, and thought that probably her father was quite right.... But her face was so exactly like Sir Joshua Reynolds' angels' heads, she might have sat for them. She was too absurdly pretty. And sweet, too, he thought. She had no vulgar pretensions, she was simple. She only wanted a little polish. He could teach her everything necessary. No task could have been more congenial....
"So you think I'm too old for you. Is that it?"
"No, it isn't. It isn't that. It's what father told you."
"Would you hate to go for a long journey with me, to see other places, other countries?"
"Oh no; I'd like it. We went to Clacton last summer. Itwasfun."
He thought a little.
"Gladys, as you're so young, won't you leave the whole thing in abeyance for a time?"
"In what, did you say?"
"Undecided. Let me come and talk to you about it in six months. The only thing I can't bear you to do is to be a manicure. I'm going to speak to your mother about it. I can't stand it."
"Oh, why, Mr. Vaughan? I should have thought it was nice for me to sort of better myself."
"Nonsense. Far better stay here. Well, will you agree to that?"
"To give up the manicuring and to leave the engagement open like? Is that what you mean?"
"That's the idea."
She thought a minute.
"I really don't see how I can. And—my boy would feel it something cruel if I put him off like that."
"When do you see him?" he asked jealously.
"Why, on Sundays. Only on Sundays."
"Ah, that's why I've never seen him. I wondered why I'd never met my hated rival."
She laughed.
"Oh, now, you're going on silly, like the people in the play!... I don't believe you alf mean it."
"Don't you believe I love you?"
"How can you? You don't ardly know me, except as a friend."
"I'll tell you why I love you if you like, dearest."
"Well, why?" She spoke with girlish curiosity.
"Because you're lovely, and lovable, and sweet. Because you're a darling."
"Oh, I say!"
"Doesn't your boy, as you call him, say these things toyou?"
"Not like that. I only see him on Sundays."
"And does he kiss you on Sundays?"
"Oh yes."
Vaughan got up.
"All right, I won't worry you any more.... I'll let you be happy in your own way, dear.... I must go now."
"Oh,mustyou?"
She seemed very disappointed.
"Yes, I'm going to France."
"What, to-day?"
"No, next week."
"Oh, I am sorry."
"Good-bye, dear."
He went in and bid adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Brill and the "Bald-faced Stag" for ever. He said to her father that he was resigned.
As soon as he had gone, Gladys went upstairs to her room, looked in the glass, then burst out crying.
She had fallen in love with Gillie.
Romer started to go by himself for a five-mile walk, leaving Daphne, Valentia and Harry in the garden, but a nail in his boot hurt so much that, after the first half-mile, Romer decided he couldn't stand it any longer, and would walk back, go quietly in, and then surprise them by coming to tea in the garden.
He was gone a very short time, but he hastened his steps, looking forward immensely to the removal of the boot, and also to seeing Valentia again.
Lately he had been more than ever devoted to her. Ever since they had been at the Green Gate she had been specially gentle and charming—but not nearly so lively as usual. Sometimes she looked quite anxious and preoccupied. He thought, too, that she was occasionally irritable; which was unlike her—and her spirits varied continually.
He asked her one day what was the matter,and she assured him that there was nothing, so he believed her. But he was always thinking about her, trying to find some means to please her. He was dissatisfied about her.
He came back, went into his room, and his spirits incalculably raised by the cessation of the torture, he went and sat by the window, and looked out at the lovely garden.
It was a hot summer day; a little wind was in the trees.
Exactly under the window, on the little verandah, sat Harry with Valentia. Daphne was no longer there.
They were talking; and talking, it seemed to him, in an agitated way.
Leaning a little over he could see Valentia on a bamboo chair. To his horror he saw that she was crying.
Harry, speaking in a suppressed but rather angry voice, appeared to be trying to comfort her.
Without a second's hesitation or a moment's scruple, Romer intently listened. He did not hide or draw behind the curtain. He remained in full view, in the window, so that they could see him easily if they happened to look up. But they did not; they were far too much preoccupied.... He heard Harry speaking volubly, saying, in a tone of irritated apology and explanation—
"My dear girl, I do wish to heaven you wouldn't take it like that. I haven't changed—I never shall. I don't care two straws about Miss Walmer. But really, it is such a splendid chance for me! You ought no more to expect me to give it up than any other good business opportunity that might crop up."
"I should never see you again," she answered, her voice broken by sobs.
"Yes, you would. We should be the same as ever. You know we can't do without each other. You're part of my life."
He spoke casually, but with irritation, as if mentioning a self-evident fact.
"Oh yes, you say that," she answered sadly. "But nothing could alter the fact that you wish to be treacherous, and throw me over—and just for money! It's simply degrading. It's all nonsense to say it will be just the same!"
"Well, of course—for a time—immediately after the marriage—it couldn't be; but it would gradually drift into very much the same."
"It wouldn't, even if it could, because I should never see you again," she repeated.
Harry stood up with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders raised.
Romer could see his face quite plainly, and wondered at its hard, selfish, almost cruel expression.
"Well, if you won't you won't," he said. "How can I waste all my life dangling after a woman who is married to somebody else? I should be only too delighted—if I could afford it. But I can't, and that's the brutal truth. And then, you know, there has been a little talk. That mother-in-law of yours has been gossiping about us. Some day, Romer's bound to get hold of it, and then where shall we be? Don't you see, dear," he went on more gently, "this will stop all that? Wouldn't it be better for me to be married—just in this official sort of way—to remain in England, and be able to see you just the same as ever—very soon—than to go out to the colonies or somewhere, and never see you again at all? There's no doubt I've got to do something. I'm in a frightful hole. Seven thousand a year—a place in the country—and a decent sort of girl, dropped down on me, as it were, from heaven! I hadn't the slightest idea of such luck—and hadn't any pretensions to it. But the girl has taken a liking to me, and her mother wants to get her married. It's ugly—unromantic—but there are the facts. If you cared for me really, I shouldn't think you would want to stand in my way."
"Very well, do it, then," she said, drying her eyes. "If you can speak in this heartless way it shows you are very different from what I believedyou. But it will kill me; I shall never get over it."
She was rushing away when Harry caught her hand and stopped her.
"Listen," he said, in an impressive voice. "Go to your room, bathe your eyes, and calm yourself down. Make no more scenes, for heaven's sake, and we'll see what can be done."
"Oh, Harry, really—isthere any hope? Or are you deceiving me again?"
"I've almost agreed to it, you know," he said. "Still, there's not what one could call an actual engagement yet. At any rate, it might be delayed. I'll see; I'll think—really if I weren't so hard up I wouldn't do it."
"Oh, Harry!" A gleam of joy came into her eyes, and she clasped her hands.
"Then you won't worry me any more about it for the next few days?" he asked.
"I promise;" and smiling sweetly through her tears she left him, going into the house. Her room, on the same floor as Romer's, was at the other end of the corridor, so she did not even pass his door, and had not the slightest idea that he was at home.
He was still at the window, looking out apparently at the garden.
Harry gave an impatient sigh, lit a cigarette and strolled off through the garden.
It had been about three o'clock when Romer had come in and sat down by the window. He was still there in precisely the same position at seven, when his valet brought his hot water.
But Romer could not dress and go down to dinner. He could not see them till he had made up his mind what to do. He always thought slowly, and now he was acutely anxious to make no mistake. He felt that by the slightest wrong move he might lose Valentia altogether. That, at least, was his instinctive dread. He sent Valentia a message that he had to go up to London to see his mother, and would be back the next day. He arranged that she did not get the message till he was driving to the station—just before dinner.
He went up to London and stayed at an hotel, but did not go to his mother's, and thought nearly all night till he had made a resolution. Then he slept till nine o'clock, feeling much happier. He remembered clearly that Harry was coming to town and going to the studio on this day, as he often did. He calculated that he would be likely to arrive by the quick early morning train, and was standing waiting at the door of the studio at twelve o'clock when Harry drove up, looking intensely surprised, with hand outstretched, cordial and delighted.
"My dear fellow, how jolly of you to remember I was coming up! Come in, come in! I've only got this bothering business to attend to, then we'll lunch together, and go back by the four train, shall we? You won't have to stop on here, will you?"
"I don't know," said Romer, as he followed Harry.
"Your mother's not ill, I hope," said Harry, throwing himself into an arm-chair.
"I don't think so," said Romer; "she's at Bournemouth."
"Bournemouth! How like her! But you haven't been down there to see her?"
"No."
"Are you going?"
"Don't think so."
"Then it isn't your mother that brought you up to town, old chap?"
"No."
"Is anything wrong?" asked Harry, after a moment's pause.
It struck him that Romer looked very odd, and as he noted a slightly greyish tinge in Romer's face, he turned pale himself under his becoming sunburn.
"What is the matter?" repeated Harry, who could not be quiet. His weakness lay in the factthat he never, under any circumstances, could entirely "hold his tongue."
Romer put down his stick and hat, which he had been holding, took a chair exactly opposite Harry, stared him in the face, and said in a dry, hard voice, much less slowly than usual—
"There's something I wish you to do."
"You wish me to——"
"Yes. Write to Miss Walmer definitely breaking off your engagement."
"My—engagement?"
"I heard what you said yesterday afternoon. I came back from my walk—there was a nail in my boot. I heard every word from the window in my room."
"You listened?"
"Yes, I listened."
"Romer, my dear fellow, I swear to you that ..."
"Don't swear anything to me," said Romer quietly. "And don't dare to defend Valentia to me.... I advise you not."
Harry was silent, utterly bewildered.
"I find that your——friendship, instead of being a pleasure to her, is making her miserable. For some reason she likes to have you about. She doesn't wish you to marry Miss Walmer. Well, you shan't! Do you hear that? You shan't!You're not going to marry that girl and then come dangling about again."
He waited a minute and then said—
"Valentia's got to be happy. You're not going to have everythingyouwant. You can surely make a little sacrifice to be her friend!" Then for one moment only Romer nearly lost his control. He said—
"We've been married five years, and I've never said a word or done a thing that she didn't like. Andyoumade her cry. You! You made her cry!"
"My dear Romer, I assure you it's all ..."
Romer interrupted him in a low voice, impatiently.
"Oh, shut up, will you? I want no talk or discussion. I want only one thing. You're to write immediately, definitely putting an end to this engagement. While you write the letter I'll wait, and then I'll post it myself. Will you do it?"
"My dear fellow, of course I'll do anything. But how strange you are! I should have thought——"
"I don't want to know what you would have thought, and I don't care a straw what you think of my attitude. On condition you do what I say, I shall never refer to the subject again, and everything shall be as it has been."
Harry was obviously greatly relieved.
"I will do whatever you wish," he said, looking and feeling ashamed of himself.
Seeing that Romer was evidently in a hurry for the letter, he drew writing materials to him.
Then Romer said—
"One more thing. You are not to tell Valentia anything about this. She's not to know I overheard. I won't have her distressed. Remember that."
"I give you my word of honour," said Harry.
"Very well. And when I've posted the letter we'll wipe out the whole thing. Don't even say you saw me in town."
"Of course I won't."
As Harry bent his head low over the writing-table, Romer, who was sitting motionless, looked at a curious dagger that was hanging on the wall, with a horrible sudden longing to plunge it in Harry's neck.... Horrified at his own fancy, he looked away from it and thought of Valentia. Valentia would smile and be happy now, and everything would go smoothly again. He would not have to say anything painful to her; she would never be uncomfortable in his presence. In time she would probably grow tired of Harry and could turn to him, Romer, again, with more affection than if anythingpainful had passed between them.... His attitude had been extraordinarily unselfish, and yet it had its root in the deep scheming selfishness and subtle calculation of the passion of love. To get Valentia back, as he vaguely hoped, some time, however distant, he had acted most wisely, and he knew it. For he cared for her far too much ever to have conventional thoughts on the subject. It never even occurred to him to try to act as the husband ought to act, or as by the incessant insidious influence of plays and novels most of us have been brought up to think he ought to act. Most people are far more guided than they know in their views of life by the artificial conventions of the theatre and of literature, or by tradition. In fact, most people are other people. Romer was himself. He thought simply for himself, like a child. And so it happened that he acted in a crisis terrible to him, more wisely for his own interest than the most sophisticated of men....
"Here is the letter. Will you read it?"
Romer read it and put it back in the envelope. Then he said—
"All right. You're going back to the Green Gate this afternoon?"
"If I may."
"I shall be back to-morrow," said Romer, in his ordinary voice.
Harry accompanied him to the door and held out his hand.
Romer hesitated a moment. Then he said—
"Good-bye," with a nod, and went away, taking no notice of it.
"By Jove!" said Harry, to himself.