Such, at any rate, was their love at present, yet nothing is safe in this uncertain world. An earthquake may rend the pleasant garden, an east wind may wither its flowers, drought may drink up its melodious stream. But now it was the June of love, and the garden was very fair.
It was nearly luncheon time, and Reggie, in spite of the woodcock, looked on to the cottage, where a thin, blue smoke rose, on a hill above the trees, wondering whether Gertrude had come yet. The beat lay over uneven ground, with some thick cover, interspersed with heathery, open places, on the edges of which many woodcock rose in silent and ghostly flight for the last time. Reggie was an excellent shot, and was having a match with Percy—a shilling a woodcock—which promised to be an investment with good security, and quick returns. He was just arguing a disputed point, in which Percy stoutly upheld that a certain bird, at which they had fired simultaneously, was his own, notReggie's, and that Reggie ought never to have shot at it, as it did not rise to him, when Gertrude appeared on the scene.
She had seen the party approaching from the cottage, and, as it was cold, she had walked on to meet them.
Percy felt much evil satisfaction at her appearance. The ways of women at shooting parties were known to him. Reggie was looking about in a bush, with the keepers, for a bird he had killed, and Gertrude stopped with him. She fully justified Percy's expectations.
"Oh! Reggie, what a pretty bird. It's an awful shame to shoot them. Poor dear! Oh! I am sure I saw it flap its wings. It can't be dead. Oh! do kill it quick. I think you're perfectly brutal. Now, you've killed it," she added with reproach, as if the object of shooting woodcock was to render them immortal.
They soon caught up the others, and Percy's wicked wish was fulfilled. No man in the world can shoot when his affianced is walking by him, making remarks on the weather, and on his homespun stockings, and telling him that she was sure he didn't hold his gun straight that time. But Reggie did not feel as if he had lost very much, when he handed Percy one-and-ninepence at lunch, which was the nearest equivalent he had for two shillings.
Mrs. Davenport was sitting by the fire when theycame in, preferring to get warm passively, rather than actively.
"Well, boys," she said, "have you had good sport? Fifteen woodcock? How jolly!"
"And we should have got four more if Gertrude hadn't joined us," said Reggie. "Why did you let her come, mother?"
Gertrude looked at him in genuine, wide-eyed astonishment.
"WhathaveI done, you stupid boy?" she exclaimed. "I only told you to hold your gun straighter; you were aiming at least five feet from the bird. Besides, it's horrid to kill woodcock; they're such jolly little beasts—birds, I mean."
"Then why did you tell me to aim straighter?" asked Reggie, with reason.
"Oh, I thought it would please you to kill them, my lord," she said. "At least, that's why you went out, wasn't it?"
Reggie was emptying his pockets of cartridges in the porch, and Gertrude was standing in the doorway, so that they were in comparative privacy.
"Would you rather please me than save the woodcock?" he asked softly.
"Reggie, I know those cartridges will go off if you drop them about so. Yes, oh the whole, I would. How dirty your hands are. Oh! is that blood on them?"
"No, dear, it's red paint, like what the Indians put on when they go out hunting."
"You extremely silly boy. Go and wash them, and then come to lunch. I'll come with you to the little pump round the corner. You can't be trusted alone."
"You'll catch cold standing about," said Reggie, not without a purpose.
"No more than you will. Besides, I want to talk to you."
"Talk away, I'm listening."
"Oh, well, it's nothing, really. I only meant to chat."
"Let's chat, then."
"Well, stoop down, while I pump on your hands. Do you know, I'm rather happy."
"What a funny coincidence; so am I."
And they went back to the house, feeling that they had had quite a successful conversation. But that was all they said.
Mr. Davenport was to join them after lunch, and go on shooting with Percy, and they had nearly finished when he entered. He was a stout, hearty-looking man of fifty, and inexpressible satisfaction was his normal expression.
"Well, you people look pretty comfortable," he said. "What sport, Reggie?"
"Oh! rabbits, lots of them, a few hares, ditto pheasants, and fifteen woodcock," said Reggie, withhis month full of bread and cheese, whose naturally healthy appetite had not been spoiled by love.
"Reggie's going to take Gertrude a drive after lunch," said Mrs. Davenport; "and I shall walk home; I want a walk."
Gertrude and Reggie looked at each other, but acquiesced.
"Reggie, dear, give Gertrude my furs. She will be cold driving, and I sha'n't want them walking," said Mrs. Davenport, as the two started to go.
Reggie took them, and with those little attentions that a woman loves so much when they are offered by somebody, wrapped them closely round her.
"Well, I'm sure I ought to be warm enough," she said, as they left the door.
"Reggie will take off his coat if you're not, I daresay," murmured Mrs. Davenport, as she watched them start. "Dear boy, how happy he is."
"He hasn't got much to complain of," said his father. "How old it makes one feel."
He stretched out his hand to his wife, and she took it silently. Parents feel old and young when they see the young birds mate.
"Reggie was recommending me to fall in love as quickly as possible, last night," remarked Percy. "He said there was nothing like it."
Mr. Davenport laughed.
"Cheeky young brute," he said. "He gives himselfthe airs of an old married man. He quite patronised his uncle the other day, because he was a bachelor. He and Gertrude together don't make up more than forty-five years between them."
"Reggie's only just twenty-four," said Mrs. Davenport, "and she's barely twenty. How dreadfully funny their first attempt at housekeeping will be. Reggie never knows what he's eating, as long as there's plenty of it, and I don't think she does either."
"Ah! well, shoulder of mutton and love is a very good diet," said his father. "Are you ready, Percy? If so, we'll be off."
Mrs. Davenport sat a little longer over the fire before she set out on her homeward walk, and observed, with some annoyance, that it had begun to snow heavily, and half wished she had driven home with Reggie. The keeper's wife wanted to send a boy with her, as the short cut across country, which she meant to take, was hardly more than a sheep-track, running across a flat stretch of bleak moorland.
There is, perhaps, nothing so bewildering as a snow-storm. The thick net-work of falling flakes conceals all but the nearest objects; and the small, familiar landmarks of the path are soon lost under the white trouble. The consequence was that, half-an-hour after Mrs. Davenport had started, she was entirely at sea as to her position, and, after trying in vain to retrace her steps, she found herself, at the end of an hour's tedioustramp, at a little cottage some six miles from home. She was known to the labourer who lived there, but, as she was too tired to continue walking through the snow that was already beginning to lie somewhat thickly on the path, he sent out a lad to the neighbouring village to procure any sort of conveyance. All this took time, and Mrs. Davenport was impatient, for the sake of those at home, to get off as soon as possible. Her husband, she knew, would be very anxious; and there were people coming to dinner.
Meanwhile, Reggie and Gertrude had got safely home after a most satisfactory drive. In fact, they rather liked the snow, which compelled them to go slower, for the sake of that sense of extreme privacy—a sort of cutting off from the rest of the world—which it lent them. He had said once, "I am afraid mother will have a horrid walk," and Gertrude was filled with an evanescent compunction for having taken her furs, but no more allusion was made to it.
They reached home about half-past four, and, half-an-hour later, were joined by the shooters, who had given up when the snow began in earnest. They were sitting at tea in the dark, oak-panelled hall, by a splendid fire of logs when Mr. Davenport suddenly said—
"I suppose your mother is changing her things upstairs, Reggie?"
Reggie was sitting on the floor, with his long legsdrawn up, and a tea-cup balanced somewhat precariously on his knees. His back was supported against the head of the sofa, on which Gertrude was sitting. She had put on an amazing tea-gown, of some dark, mazarine stuff, trimmed with large bunches of lace, and was feeling intensely happy and rather languid after the day in the cold air. She had just asked Reggie some question, and he did not hear, or, at any rate, did not fully take in his father's remark.
Ten minutes passed, and Mr. Davenport rose to go.
"You'd better ring the bell, Reggie," he said, "and get your mother's maid to take her some tea upstairs, or it will be getting cold. I am afraid she must have got very wet."
"I don't think mother's come in yet," said Reggie, placidly.
"Not in yet," he said quickly. "Why didn't you tell me? She must have lost her way over the High Croft."
The irrepressible satisfaction had died out of his face. He rang the bell sharply.
"Tell two men to go at once, with lanterns, over the High Croft. Mrs. Davenport must have lost her way."
Gertrude got up.
"You're not anxious about her, are you?"
"No, no, dear," said he, "but it's a horrid night.The snow may be lying very thick, and perhaps she has lost her path. There's no anxiety."
Gertrude looked down with a little impatience at her long-limbed lover.
"Reggie, you goose, why didn't you remember she hadn't come in?"
Reggie looked up.
"I thought nothing about it. There are lots of cottages about. It was stupid of me to forget. Can I do anything, father? Shall I go out with the men?"
He was perfectly willing to do quite cheerfully all that was required of him, and he would have got back into his damp shooting clothes, and left this comfortable hall and Gertrude without a murmur.
"No, never mind," said he. "I think I shall go with them, because I couldn't keep quiet at home. But I wish you'd remembered sooner."
Reggie had risen and was standing by the fireplace.
"I wish you'd let me go, instead of you," he said.
"No; there's no need whatever. I only go for my own sake."
Reggie was quite content. If he was not wanted to go, he was quite happy to stop. He was extremely fond of his mother, and the thought of her possible discomfort was most unpleasant to him, but what was the good of worrying? There was absolutely no danger. Mrs. Davenport was an eminently sensible person,and he could not lessen her discomfort by thinking about it. Let us be sensible by all means; let us take things as they come, without thinking about them when there is nothing to be done. Truly these boyish natures are a little irritating at times!
Mr. Davenport left the hall, and Reggie resumed his place on the floor, and had another cup of tea.
"Poor mother!" he said with sincerity; "how dreadfully wet and cold she will be."
Percy had retired to the smoking-room, and the two were alone.
"Your father was rather vexed," she said.
"I'm afraid he was," said Reggie. "I wish he'd let me go instead of him."
"Why don't you go with him?"
"That would do no good," said Reggie. "He's only going because he is anxious. I'm not the least anxious. Mother is sure to have turned in at some cottage to wait till the snow was over, or until she could get a carriage. If I could save her anything by going out, of course I'd go."
Gertrude was frowning at the fire.
"I think I'll ask him whether I may come with him," she said.
Reggie raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, nonsense," he said. "He wouldn't let you, anyhow. Sit down, Gerty, and talk."
"Oh, well," she said, "I suppose it's all right."
There was no need, however, for Mr. Davenport to go out, for before he came down again with thick boots, and rough clothes on, his wife had arrived.
Reggie sprang up and welcomed her with great eagerness and affection.
"Dear mother," he cried, "I am so glad you have come. Oh! how wet you are."
He led her to the fire, and poured out a cup of tea with almost feminine tenderness.
"I hope you and Gerty weren't anxious," she said.
"Oh, no," said Reggie, frankly, "not a bit. I knew it would be all right. But I'll run to tell father. He was going out with two men to look for you."
"Reggie wanted to go instead of him," said Gertrude, feeling that her lover's conduct was capable of some slight justification.
"Dear Reggie is never anxious," said Mrs. Davenport, warming her hands. "It is a great comfort for him."
Gertrude was rather relieved. There was no need for her, apparently, to turn advocate.
Theology, in theory, at any rate, teaches us that human beings are living things with souls; experience, on the other hand, which deals with facts capable ofproof, insists that, whatever theological truth this statement may embody, for practical purposes, human beings are born without souls. The soul awakes, or, as experience says, is born at varying times. Some men and women reach maturity of body and mind without it, some, we cannot help thinking, reach death without it; some, on the other hand, are but children when that perplexing gift is handed over to their bewildered keeping. But the soulless human animal often has at its disposal and use a quantity of instincts which partake of the soul-like nature; the soul, at any rate, when it is born, takes them over entire. There is no need to adapt them, or to purify them, for they are already clean and pure; it hardly ever vitalises them, for they are already very living; it merely shows them their kinship to itself, and they are forthwith embodied in it.
This birth of the soul, like all births, is the consummation of bitter pangs; it is brought forth in sorrow, through some rending asunder of the inmost fibre, not by any elegant musing on devotional books, nor in a flash of blinding ecstasy, but in silence, save, perhaps, for the bitter cry, in darkness, in solitary desolation, for the sufferer does not know what is happening until the end of his pain has come; the blind pangs get fiercer and fiercer, and are still unexplained till the light breaks.
It would, perhaps, be an insult to the reader tostate baldly the bearing of these remarks, for it will be already, we hope, obvious to him that, in this sense, Reggie, in spite of his frank charm, his susceptibility, his pretty face, his capacity for receiving and inspiring affection, was, at heart, soulless. His strong, hearty liking for his betrothed was of that genial, animal kind, which, however wholesome and satisfactory, has no more to do with the soul than his power of aiming straight at woodcock. Happily, or unhappily, for him, the abstruse side of life was scarcely less remote from Gertrude than it was from himself. She had at present no wish and no power to give anything but the same genial, hearty liking that she received, a thorough, wholesome affection in which the nature of both, as far as they were aware of their nature, shared to the full. Neither Reggie nor Gertrude had ever fallen in love with an idea, which is, perhaps, the most exacting lover that man or woman ever has, but which, being wholly abstract, is of an entirely different nature from the love of two young people who admire and like each other enormously, mind and body. This abstruser side of life was a complete puzzle to Reggie. To take a very small but wholly appropriate illustration; he could sympathise with his mother, who might, perhaps, be wandering on the High Croft in a snow-storm, with a good deal of feeling, but the instinct that made his father put on his damp shooting clothes, and prepare to go out, not for any assistance he could give, but forthe eminently unpractical reason that his wife was in the snow and he was having tea, seemed inexplicable to his son. If he could have done a jot or a tittle of good by standing in the water butt for five minutes, there is not the shadow of doubt that he would have done so, shiveringly but contentedly and without question; but it would have seemed absurd to him to put his nose outside the hall door, if nothing was to come of it.
With a less sweet disposition, he would have been a profound egoist; but in his manliness was salt enough, as the phrase is, to keep him sweet. The egoist rates himself higher than he rates the rest of the world; he thinks more of himself, consciously or unconsciously, as he thinks less of others, whereas Reggie, though he was incapable of those intricacies of feeling, which, for all practical purposes, are different, not merely in complexity but in kind, from the simpler forms, and which make the spectacle of the human race so vastly interesting, and produce, it may be, love of the complex order, never contemplated himself at all, and, however little he knew of others, at any rate he knew nothing of himself. His mind resembled, it is true, a being of two dimensions, which is unable to contemplate the existence of a third, but in its two dimensions it moved very smoothly, and had a very charming smile for its own plane horizon.
Gertrude stopped with the Davenports nearly a fortnight—a fortnight of pleasant, quiet days, whichare paradise to a mind content, and she was supremely content. Reggie was all that a lover, whom she would choose, should be; he was uniformly cheerful, affectionate, charming, full of the thought of her; and, ah! how much that means! Reggie was one of those who show their best side when they are in love; whereas many men, who are otherwise reasonable beings, behave like spoiled children when they are in that predicament; they become observant, jealous, exacting, when they should be serene, indulgent, large-hearted.
But once, just at the end of that fortnight, there arose out of the sea a little cloud like a man's hand, which broke the blue horizon, though Reggie was unconscious of it. A little hint of it had occurred once before, on that evening when Mrs. Davenport lost her way over the High Croft, but on that occasion it had soon passed away.
Percy, it must be owned, was not so jovially contented with the spectacle, as the days went on, as the actors themselves. He was a deductive young gentleman, and, to his mind, this affair resembled too strongly Reggie's previous flutterings in the feminine dovecotes to strike him as something altogether different from a flirtation on a large scale. A flirtation, after all, is only a superficial exhibition of love, an attraction on one side, a liability to be attracted on the other; and the question occurred to him, whether it is possible to keep a flirtation up permanently, and what was left ifit broke down? A strong, deep love, like the Nile in flood, leaves, like a sediment behind, which in so many cases renders marriages, from which the tumultuous stream has passed, happy and stable, an alluvial deposit, which makes the earth rich and fruitful in the sober green of friendship; but when the slender, light-hearted streamlet is dried up, the effect of its passage is only too often seen in the uncovering of ugly roots and stones, and a removal, not a deposit of sediment. Of course he knew more about those previous affairs, which, to do Reggie justice, were superficial and innocent enough, than did that gentleman's mother. A young man, whatever his relations with his mother may be, will choose some other confidant in such cases. They argued, in fact, nothing more than a very great susceptibility on Reggie's part to the influence of charming young women, and the sage Percy asked himself whether the constant propinquity of one specimen of this attractive product would necessarily secure him from the influence of the others. That unlucky resemblance between his previous skirmishes and this engagement seemed to him too close to be altogether satisfactory. A flirtation on a large scale, he argued, is not very different from a flirtation on a small scale.
Mrs. Davenport had immense confidence in Percy. He was three years older than Reggie, and was possessed of a certain soundness, of which that younggentleman stood in need. He had been of great use to him in the thousand and one unconscious ways in which one young man can help another slightly younger than himself. He had a practical mastery of details that led him to reliable conclusions on their sum, which is a gift as useful as intuitive judgment, though less striking in its process, as it partakes of the nature of industry rather than brilliance. But Reggie's mother did him justice, and found herself consulting him as she would have consulted an older man, with considerable respect for his opinion.
"We are all so delighted about Reggie's engagement," she said to him one evening after dinner. "His father thought, and so did I, that a long engagement was better. You see they are both very young, and they ought to know each other well. No one should marry on an enthusiastic first impression, least of all Reggie, because he has so many of them."
"Certainly there are no signs of wavering yet," said he. "They are as fond of each other as—as two children."
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"They are so healthfully fond of each other," he said. "They were trying to read two of Browning's lyrics this morning, about one way of love and another way of love, and they gave it up in about three minutes and read Pickwick instead."
"Poor Reggie, I'm afraid he'll find that his way of love is neither one nor the other, but I think it's a good way for all that."
"There's no nonsense about it, anyhow," said Percy, without meaning to make reflections on the lyrics in question.
"It isn't tumultuous exactly," said Reggie's mother, "but it's very thorough. Still waters do run deep, you know, in spite of the proverb."
"But the stillness is not a proof of their depth."
"No; but when a stream is in the rapids, so to speak, it is. The rapids, I mean, which come just after the waterfall, the plunge into love."
"Oh, but Reggie's always falling in love."
"So I gathered; though, of course, the boy wouldn't tell me about that. But I don't think that's against his present engagement."
Percy was silent, and Mrs. Davenport adjusted her bracelet before she added,—
"I believe it's a healthy thing for a young man to be in a chronic state of devotion. The vague adoration is all sucked into the particular adoration when that comes."
"But is falling in love with a series of particular girls to be called a vague adoration?"
"Yes, certainly, just as a circle is an infinite number of straight lines. He falls in love with womanliness in many forms."
"I see. No doubt you are right. Certainly he is standing his long engagement very well."
"Poor boy! he wants to shorten it very much, which is just the very reason why I want it to be long."
"Miss Carston is satisfied, I gather?"
"It looks like it," said Mrs. Davenport, smiling, and indicating with her eye a shady corner of the room where the two lovers were sitting.
"Old Lady Hayes was staying with us for a week in London last summer," she continued, after a pause. "She was defeated in a great battle, apparently, with your sister, and came here to bind up her wounds by bullying us all. I have an immense admiration for anyone who can rout her."
Percy laughed.
"I heard something about it. Eva behaved abominably, I expect."
"I met her several times in London," said Mrs. Davenport. "She has a wonderful way of appearing to notice no one, and obliging every one to notice her."
"I never saw anyone so changed in a short time as Eva," said Percy. "She has suddenly found men and women extraordinarily interesting. A year ago, she was exactly the reverse. She disliked most women, and never remembered any man."
"That was the impression she gave me in the summer."
"Ah! but that manner is only a survival. She is often silent; at other times she talks a great deal. In the old days she seldom talked at all."
"Poor Hayes is terribly afraid of her."
"I think most people are afraid of her. She can be very cruel."
"A woman with such beauty as that has an unfair advantage. Her shots must always tell."
"She is one of those people who always make an impression," said Percy; "because she doesn't care at all what impression she makes."
"That is the sort of impression that produces the deadliest results," said Mrs. Davenport. "If a man sees that he is being made a fool of, he can be on his guard, but the effect of the other is that he is dazzled, piqued, maddened. The women who don't care are always those for whom men care most passionately."
"I wonder if Eva will ever fall in love," said Percy half to himself.
"It will be a fine sight if she does; she will teach all these bloodless people how to do it. I think she has more force than anyone I know. Does she ever talk to you about her marriage?"
"Oh! there's nothing in the world she doesn't talk about. She has begun to take an immense interest in herself, as well as in other people, and she watches her own development with much entertainment. She never forces anything; she quietly waits till the changeis made, and then finds out exactly what has happened."
"Her scene with old Lady Hayes must have been wicked," said Mrs. Davenport. "I can imagine her so well, lolling back in her chair with infinite languor, smoking cigarettes probably, and uttering slow, polished blasphemies about all her mother-in-law's most cherished beliefs."
"They are out in Algiers now," said Percy. "Eva suddenly expressed a wish to go there again. She likes the languid heat of the place. Jim Armine is with them."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Davenport, softly. "She is very cruel."
"She had the greatest distaste for her ordinary home life. Last year my father lost a lot of money, and we had to live very quietly at home in the country and retrench. Eva couldn't endure it. She had quite made up her mind that she would never fall in love at all. She will do something sublime if she does. She is quite capable of sacrificing herself or anybody else."
"A clear stage and a crowd to see," thought Mrs. Davenport, "and may I be in the stalls."
Meanwhile, the two lovers were talking at the very farthest corner of the drawing-room, but before the evening was over, the little cloud, which had just appeared over the horizon on the occasion when Reggie's mother had lost her way in the snow, gathered again,and this time it seemed to Gertrude to leave a little film of mist behind. Like the other two, they had been talking about Percy's sister, and Reggie had said suddenly,—
"She is perfectly lovely, I believe; they call her the most beautiful woman in London. Percy showed me her photograph. I want to see her very much."
This speech, made in absolute thoughtlessness, jarred somehow on Gertrude's sensibilities.
"I daresay there are many actresses as beautiful," she said, rather unnecessarily. "I don't think I should like her a bit. There was a man staying with us the other day who said she was perfectly reckless about what she did."
"Oh! a woman as beautiful as that can afford to be reckless," said Reggie. "She sets the fashion."
"I don't think recklessness is a good fashion to set, then," said Gertrude, with some asperity.
"Oh! nor do I," said Reggie. "I only meant that one excuses it more, somehow."
"I don't see why you should excuse it because a woman is beautiful," said she, seeing the cloud rising out of the sea.
"I don't know," said Reggie. "You must take a person all round; beauty is an advantage, and you set it off against a corresponding disadvantage."
"Do you mean that an incomparably beautifulwoman is excusable if she does unpardonably nasty things?"
"I suppose it comes to that in extremities," said he, doubtfully. "You see, it is impossible to believe that such a woman could do anything quite unpardonable."
"Reggie, you're absurd," she cried; "don't talk such utter nonsense, and be thankful I don't believe you mean what you say."
Reggie turned round in surprise.
"Why, Gerty, what's the matter?" he asked.
"You hurt me when you talk like that," she said.
"Oh! what have I been saying?" said he, with an air of perplexity. "You know the worst of me is, I never know what I'm talking about. When I begin talking I get dreadfully puzzled."
"Most people explain what they mean by talking, not obscure it."
"Well, it's just the opposite way with me," said he, serenely. "I know what I think all right before I begin to say it, but as soon as I begin to say it, I begin not to know what I think."
This confident assertion failed to satisfy Gertrude.
"You said you didn't mind a woman being immoral, if she was only beautiful," she said.
"Oh! I never said a word about immorality," exclaimed Reggie. "I don't think it's right to talk about such things. Gerty, whatdoyou mean. As if Ishould say such things to you, especially since I never think them at all."
The open candour of her lover's face had its due effect.
"Well, you're quite sure you meant nothing of the sort, are you?" she asked, ready to be mollified.
"Of course I am," said he with sincerity. "I don't understand what you mean."
"What did you say, then?"
The cloud had begun to drift, but the horizon was not clear yet.
"Oh! don't ask me," he said tragically. "I tell you I never know what I say, and I get so dreadfully confused. I said—Oh, Lord! what did I say. I said that an ugly woman—oh, dear!—that an ugly woman can't do the things which, if a beautiful woman did, she wouldn't be thought a beast," he explained, with a fine disregard of coherency.
"Oh! but, Reggie, that's exactly what you said you didn't say."
"No, it isn't," said Reggie, who, though not exactly bored, wanted to talk about something else. "I said something about a beautiful woman being the fashion, which an ugly woman can't be."
"What do you mean by the fashion?"
"Why, I mean the fashion," said Reggie; "the rage, thecomme ilsomething, the thing everybody else does—balloon sleeves and dachshunds, you know."
"Are you sure you only meant that sort of fashion?" asked she.
"Oh! yes, of course I am. Oh! do let's talk about something else."
But Gertrude was vaguely dissatisfied. The cloud had left a little drift of mist behind.
And Reggie? Well Reggie's cleanly, honest instincts gave him no directions on this subject; they drew in their feelers like sea anemones when a foreign substance touches them. A soul would have had a word or two to say to him about it, but Reggie unfortunately knew nothing about that.
They sat silent for a minute or two, Reggie trying to think of something to say which should be sufficiently remote from this puzzling topic, Gertrude still rather troubled in her mind. In after years, she remembered that night as the first occasion on which a certain, vague pain had begun, the first of a series of blind pangs that stirred a new sort of feeling in her, that tore asunder some fibre in her inmost being. An elegant musing over devotional books is, as I have mentioned before, the accredited source of such an awakening.
The unerring instinct of a lover in Reggie, divined, though very dimly, that some little change had taken place. He felt that Gertrude had felt something that he had not felt. In spite of his recent sense of irresponsibility, of utter contentedness on his own part, hecould see that the edge had been taken, ever so slightly, off hers. You may observe something like this in the case of the more human animals. A dog sometimes will know that it does not understand, if the bond between itself and its human friend is very strong. Its inability to understand is something quite different; it is the knowledge of this inability that is rare, and Reggie felt this now.
As is natural, he recovered himself first. After a twinge of pain, one is prone to sit quiet a minute or two, and regain one's normal level. But the pain had been all on one side, and Gertrude required a little space to steady herself in.
"Gerty, let's play a game of some sort. Come and see what the others are going to do."
He got up and stood in front of her.
"Pull me up," she said.
Her white hands lay in his great brown paws, like little patches of snow in some sheltered nook of the hills. But they were warm with life and love, and she was very fair. He bent down and kissed them gently, first one and then the other.
"You sha'n't kiss my hands," she said. "Come, let's go to the others."
The troubled look had gone from her face, but Mrs. Davenport, with a woman's swift, infallible intuition, saw that something, ever so small, had happened.There was still in her eyes the shadow of a vague wonder.
Ladies, I believe, have a bad habit of going to each other's bedrooms when they are thought to have gone to bed, and sitting by the fire, talking things over. It is a bad plan to talk things over at night, because, while you are talking, there forms in the air, without your seeing it, a little grey ghost, to which your words give birth. There are no such things as barren words; all words uttered by you go to make up a little series of figures, who come and talk to you when nobody else is there. And the sort of conversation that Gertrude and Mrs. Davenport had that night gave rise to a little, pale, anxious, grey ghost, that sat by Gertrude's bedside, and, as soon as her body had had enough sleep—the ghost always allows his victims the necessary minimum—it tapped fretfully on her shoulder, and said, "Come, wake up, let us go on talking!" And Gertrude stirred in her dreamless sleep, and knew that the little ghost had come to talk to her.
It is a time-honoured custom for an author to describe the personal appearance of any character when he decides to lay his reflections before a discriminating public, and the neglect of this custom is a red rag to the stupid, furious bull called criticism. So, since this little ghost's personal appearance is only to be described by retailing the conversation which tookplace between Gertrude and Mrs. Davenport the night before, this obedient and peace-loving author complies with the eminently English demand.
Gertrude was sitting before her fire in her dressing-gown, when Mrs. Davenport came in. Her eyes still wore a troubled look, and the pictures in the fire were not so pleasant as she had known them.
Mrs. Davenport noticed it at once. It was the same look as she had seen before that evening, a little intensified.
"Are you tired, dear?" she asked. "Would you rather I left you to go to bed instead of talking?"
Gertrude looked up.
"No, I want to talk very much."
"Gerty, dear, is anything the matter?"
"I don't know."
There was a short silence. Mrs. Davenport was far too wise to press her. Then Gertrude said,—
"Do you know Lady Hayes?"
Mrs. Davenport was puzzled. The carrier-pigeon always takes a few wide circles before he sets out on his unerring flight home.
"Oh! yes, quite well," she replied. "Percy and I were talking about her this evening. It's funny that neither you nor Reggie have even seen her."
She was feeling her way with tactful discretion. But it was a very narrow path down which Gertrudemeant to go, and Mrs. Davenport not unnaturally had missed it.
"What is she like?" asked Gertrude.
"Ah! what isn't she like? She is the most beautiful woman in England, I think, also one of the most reckless, and, I believe, very generous. I should call her dangerous as well. But she is so interesting, so unlike others, that you forget everything else, which is harder than forgiving it."
Gertrude turned round and faced her.
"Ah, you too," she said.
"I don't quite understand, dear," said Mrs. Davenport, gently; "have you and Reggie been talking about her? Tell me, Gerty. I saw something was a wee bit wrong. I'm sure you haven't been quarrelling, though. What has been the matter?"
"I couldn't love Reggie more than I do," said Gertrude, irrelevantly, "and I don't think he could love me more than he does. It's odd that I should be troubled."
"Yes, dear, I am sure of your love for each other," said Mrs. Davenport. "But tell me what is wrong. It does one good to tell things; they become so much smaller in the telling. Those vague thoughts are like those great spongy puff balls that we noticed to-day; as soon as you really examine them, you find there is nothing in them. What is it?"
"I don't know," said Gertrude again.
Ah, that infinite patience of womankind! Mrs.Davenport waited a moment, and then, by an unerring instinct, laid her hand softly on Gertrude's, and pressed it gently. The touch had power in it, and the dumb soul spake.
"I've got no right to be troubled," said Gertrude, "and I feel it's horribly ungrateful of me, when I think of what Reggie is to me, and how good you are all to me. But—"
Her voice got tremulous, and she stopped abruptly.
"Yes?" said Mrs. Davenport, softly, wanting to hear more for Gertrude's sake.
"It's just this," she said at last, speaking rapidly, and with a splendid self-control. "Reggie said something this evening which hurt me. He said that recklessness mattered less in a beautiful woman than in another."
"Is that all?" said Mrs. Davenport, with considerable relief.
"No, that's not all," said Gertrude. "That was all nonsense; of course I know he doesn't mean that. But he didn't see it hurt me. Oh! it's so hard not to give you a wrong impression. I don't mean that he was inconsiderate at all—he never is anything but considerate—but he simply didn't know. It wasn't tangible to his mind. If I cut my finger he'd be miserable about it, but somehow he was unable to understand how this hurt me, and so he could not see that it did hurt me. It hurt me somewhere deep down, ever solittle, but the feeling was new and strange. This sounds horribly selfish, I'm afraid, but I can't help it."
"Ah, I think I see," said Mrs. Davenport.
"It's like this," said Gertrude. "Hitherto I've always felt so entirely at one with Reggie. If I feel a thing, he's always seemed to feel it too, like an echo, and the same with me. But just this once I listened for the echo and it didn't come."
Mrs. Davenport paused a moment.
"Did you ever hear of the man who was out riding with his wife when her horse threw her, and in dismounting to help her he dropped his whip, and while he was picking it up, the horse kicked her and killed her?" she asked. "It seems to me that you are just a little like that man, Gerty. Love is a very big thing; one's own small sensibilities are very little things. Take care of the big thing, never mind the others."
"But they're so mixed up," said the girl. "You see the little thing is a part of the big thing."
"You are right—that is quite true. But there are many very lovely things which it is right to look at as a whole. Love is one of those. All philosophers, from the beginning of the world, have addled their brains over that impossible analysis. You and Reggie are not philosophers, Gerty; you are young lovers, and it is not your business to analyse or dissect, but to enjoy."
Mrs. Davenport was at the sore disadvantage of having to temporise. She could not but suspect what was at the bottom of this. But all she said was quite sincere. She fully believed that the strength of Gerty's love would fill the interval, if there was to be an interval between her and Reggie. It is best that the woman be better, finer, bigger than the man, for the beautiful indulgence of a woman's love has more passive endurance in these early stages than a man's. In the perfect marriage, the two eventually are mixed "in spite of the mortal screen," but such mixings are rare at first. They rushed together, they will inevitably recoil a little, and a woman has more power of waiting than most men. Gertrude seemed somewhat relieved, but it was not quite over yet. The grey ghost was waiting for his frillings.
"I was just a little disappointed, you understand?" she said. "I waited for the echo, but it never came. Ah! well, I am very happy. Yon are very good to me."
"God forbid that I or mine should ever give you pain," said Mrs. Davenport, warmly.
"And what am I to do?" said Gertrude, to whom the practical side of things always presented itself.
"Be natural, dear," said the other, "as you always are. You are both very young; well, that is a gift almost more worth having than anything else. It lies in your power a great deal to keep it. And, if youguard it well, it will build up in you the only other gift which is worth having, which will last you to your grave. They will melt into each other."
Gertrude looked at her inquiringly.
"It is called by many names," she said. "It is trustfulness, it is serenity, it is sympathy; it is all these, and many more. Some people call it the grace of God, and I think they are right." She kissed the girl on her forehead very tenderly. "It will tide you over the difficult places, over which youth carries you now, for youth has the gift of a splendid stainlessness—of going through deep waters and not being drowned, of avoiding evil instinctively, without thought; but the time comes to us all when we avoid it with our reason as well, and with our soul."
"It was ridiculous of me," said the girl suddenly. "Reggie didn't know what I felt, and I didn't tell him; and yet I was disappointed. I've probably done just the same to him lots of times, and he never told me. It was abominably selfish of me. I hope he'll forgive me."
"I should think it extremely unlikely," said Mrs. Davenport, with enormous gravity. "I should advise you to cry yourself to sleep. I am going to bed, and so are you. Good-night! Ah! my dear, I pray you may be very happy."
Gertrude clung to her in a long kiss, feeling a new bond had sprung up between them.
But the odious, little, grey ghost, who had been grinning sardonically at her easy enthusiasm, was sitting by her bed, waiting till the renewal of strength, brought by sleep, had quickened her capabilities for listening to his cold accuracies—until that generous, sudden glow had begun to burn somewhat less warmly in her breast.
Lord Hayes had been rather troubled about his health during the winter in which the foregoing events had occurred, though it had not stood in the way of their giving several large house-parties. But at one of these he had suddenly fainted dead off in the middle of dinner, and, when the house was empty again, he had gone up to London to see a doctor.
Eva was sitting in her room when he returned, feeling rather bored.
"Well, Hayes," she said, as he came in, "what did they say to you?"
Lord Hayes adjusted his trousers about the knee before he answered.
"I have all the symptoms of dangerous heart disease," he said. "I may live for many years, and die of something else. Again, I may die almost at any moment."
Eva's book drooped off her knee.
"How horrible!" she said at length. "Can nothing be done? Are they sure they are right?"
"Unfortunately, they are quite sure," he said; "and nothing can be done. They consider the chance of my dying quite suddenly at any time as possible, but not at all likely."
Eva, in her serene health, felt a sudden, great pity for him, but not unmixed with horror. She had no sympathy with disease; it seemed to her hardly decent.
"Poor Hayes," she said. "I cannot tell you how shocked I am."
"I thought it was best to tell you," said he, "but let us avoid the subject altogether. I shall live to bore you for many years yet."
Eva looked at him admiringly.
"You are a brave man. But you are right. Don't let us talk about it."
This took place late in November, but the fact that the symptoms, which had been the result of over-fatigue, did not re-occur, made Eva soon get used to the thought, and, in a measure, her husband too. He took the doctor's advice, did not over-exert himself at all, and found that the discovery they had made did not affect his health. The days soon began to pass on as usual.
Eva had suddenly determined to go abroad for a few weeks, for she had an intense dislike to an Englishwinter. Hence it came about that one morning at breakfast, when she and her husband were alone, she had said to him,—
"What do you propose to do during these next two months, Hayes?"
Lord Hayes looked up from his breakfast, not quite understanding the purport of her question.
"I suppose we shall remain here till Easter," he said. "We are paying some visits in January, I believe."
"I should rather like to go abroad for a few weeks now this horrible weather has begun." She looked out of the window, where snow was beginning to fall heavily, and shivered sympathetically. "I hate this English weather," she said; "it is like being in a cold bath. Dry cold is not so bad, there is something exhilarating about it. But this doesn't suit me in the least. Why shouldn't we go to Algiers again?"
"I thought you didn't like Algiers," he said. "Do you propose that we should go alone?"
"Oh no, we won't make any intolerable demands of that sort on each other. I think it suits us best to have people with us. I daresay Percy would like to come for a bit, perhaps your mother would join us, and then there's Jim Armine, who always wants to go abroad whenever he can."
Eva spoke with the utmost indifference, but her husband found himself wondering whether that indifferencewas not a very subtle piece of acting. That he had some inkling of the young man's feelings towards his wife was very possible, but he had not the least objection to that. In fact, it rather pleased him than otherwise, as it afforded a sort of testimonial to his own admirable taste in wishing her to become his wife, and to his enviable success in securing her for that purpose. He knew quite well that therôleof jealous husband would not suit him in the least, and he had no intention of being a complaisant one, but he had sense enough to guess that complaisance was not necessary. He had no reason to believe that Eva had a heart at all; and he had no desire to make a mistake. If he suggested to Eva that he would rather not have Jim Armine with them, his remark would be liable to be interpreted in a way which she might with justice resent; in fact, that was the only interpretation open to her, for he liked the young man well enough in himself. He did not even admit the smallest suspicion into his mind; he only realised that there was the possibility of an avenue, down which suspicion might some day choose to walk; and when suspicion was seen by him walking down that avenue, he would go and take its hand, and they would knock at Eva's door, and show themselves.
Eva rose from the table.
"Then you don't mind coming to Algiers?"
It was clearly impossible to say "No; but I domind Jim Armine coming," and so he proposed a date some ten days off for their departure.
"Why shouldn't we go sooner?" asked Eva.
"There's been some unpleasantness down at the ironworks," he said, "and I think that, as owner, I ought to just wait till it's settled in some form or another."
"Do you mean down at Trelso?"
"Yes; the men are striking, or wanting to strike, for higher wages—more pay, in fact."
"Couldn't you go down there to-day, and see the agents or managers or whoever they are?"
"There is nothing definite yet; we only know that there is a good deal of discontent."
"Surely, then, you can leave it with your manager to deal with, when it occurs. It is absurd waiting in England for a handful of miners to tell you what they want."
"It would be better, I think, if I waited," he said.
"I wish you would explain to me exactly why."
"Simply because, as owner," he said, "they would wish to consult me if anything went really wrong."
"Surely there is a telegraph to Algiers. I should infinitely prefer starting in less than a week. I really cannot stand this sort of weather."
"I feel sure I am right to stop," he said. "It is certainly best."
Eva hesitated a moment.
"Would you mind my going on without you, then? Perhaps that would be the best plan. I daresay Jim will come with me."
Her husband looked at her narrowly. He felt he was playing a losing game.
"I will go down to Trelso to-day, and see exactly what the state of affairs is—how they stand, in fact."
"Very good. I shall start on Thursday, then. I will write to Jim to-day. I hope you won't lose any more money over this."
He smiled rather grimly.
"I hope not. This last year has been very expensive. I don't grudge it in the least; in fact, it is very interesting to me to see how much a woman can spend."
He was conscious of an impotent desire to make it not quite pleasant for Eva, even if she did get her own way in the main, and he was pleased to see her flinch, just perceptibly. She was annoyed with herself for doing it.
"Yes, I suppose you find you spend much more now than you used."
"About ten thousand a year more."
"Dear me, that is a great deal. You can hardly have counted the cost."
"I did not quite realise it at the time. That's what I mean by saying it was more than I anticipated."
"Ah! of course you wouldn't anticipate it," said Eva. "Love is blind, you know."
Lord Hayes was rather sorry he had begun. He was somewhat in the position of a dog which runs out from its shelter to bite a passer-by, and when it gets into the open, discovers that its intended victim carries a stick.
Eva waited long enough to give him time to reply if he wanted, but finding he said nothing, turned and left the room.
Two days after this, as they were sitting at dinner, Eva asked him what had happened about the ironworks.
"I am glad you reminded me," he said. "I told them that I wished particularly to leave England at once, and asked them to telegraph to me in case I was wanted. It appears that they do not expect any immediate disturbance, so I shall be able to come with you on Thursday—in fact, there will be nothing to detain me."
"You had better stop if you think you are wanted," said Eva. "I can manage perfectly by myself, and Jim Armine will be with me; he wrote to-day. But if they don't want you, of course you'll go with me."
"Armine is coming, then, is he?" asked her husband.
"Yes; you don't object to him, I hope?"
"Not in the least."
"If you do, it would have been better if you had said so at once," said Eva, carelessly. "I've asked him now."
"Why should you suppose I object to him?" he asked suddenly.
"You didn't seem very cordial about it. Have you asked anybody else?"
"I mentioned it to my mother when I saw her in Trelso, but she said she wouldn't come."
"Ah!" said Eva, with the ghost of a smile, "did she say why?"
"Apparently it was for your sake—because of you, in fact."
"I expect she meant for her own sake. I should be charmed to have her. There is a straightforwardness, a refusal to compromise, in her behaviour to me, that is very refreshing."
"She speaks of you with bitterness—I might almost say rancour," remarked Lord Hayes.
"I am more sinned against than sinning, then," said Eva. "I always feel perfectly charitable towards her. She loathes me; but, after all, that is not her fault. Really, it is wonderful what a fine order of hatred is compatible with the most orthodox Christianity. But of course I am one of the works of the devil, which she has been led to renounce from a child."
Thus it came about that, before the middle of December, Lord Hayes and his wife, and Jim Armine,were installed in the charming little villa at Algiers. The Gulf of Lyons was kinder on this occasion to the susceptibilities of Lord Hayes, and he produced his white umbrella, and sat on a deck chair in untroubled contemplation. He always wore a yachtsman's cap and brown shoes on calm trips, which were, somehow, particularly aggravating to Eva.
She was sitting on deck when he came upstairs on the morning after their departure from Marseilles, and Eva had a long, malignant look at him as he approached her.
"You look completely nautical this morning," she said slowly. "I hope it won't get rough, for your sake, or you will have to retire. The commodore will be found groaning in his cabin. But, perhaps you are only a fighting sailor, like Lord Nelson, who was always ill, wasn't he? In that case, I hope we sha'n't meet any Moorish privateers. If we are attacked during a storm, you will be completely exposed."
Eva had rarely said anything to him in such simple bad taste, and her husband was surprised. The childishness of her strictures, however, rather amused him than otherwise, for he thought he had the key to them, in a rather awkward little scene which had taken place the evening before. Eva had been arguing some point with Jim Armine, and he had got a little excited. She had just made an assertion which seemed to him to contradict what she had said amoment before, and by an unlucky slip he exclaimed,—
"Why, Eva, you said just the opposite a minute ago."
The mistake was pardonable enough: when a man is in love with a woman, he naturally thinks of her by her Christian name, and it is excusable if, in some momentary excitement, he uses it. Eva was startled. He had never called her that before, and, losing her self-control for one half second, she uttered a sudden exclamation of anger, and glanced at her husband. He was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, looking at the sunset. He turned to Jim Armine, and said politely,—
"I think you must have misunderstood Lady Hayes."
The poor young man flushed deeply, and Eva bit her lips, divided between her annoyance and a desire to laugh. But the annoyance conquered in the end, as the delicate, veiled insult of her husband's speech dawned upon her. His words certainly bore another interpretation, though whether he had meant it or not she was not quite sure, and she could not ask him. But Jim Armine evidently took them in the obscurer sense and was horribly disconcerted, and Eva not unnaturally felt extremely annoyed. He was, possibly, trying to make a fool of her, and she had not the least intention of being treated in such a manner. After a few momentsshe found something to say, but the conversation was evidently over. Jim Armine soon strolled away to the other end of the deck, and Eva was left alone with her husband.
As soon as the other was out of hearing, she said to him,—
"I do not wish you to speak of me in that way. Please remember that."
"I regret having offended you," replied he, "but I do not choose that Armine should call you by your Christian name, Eva, in fact."
"Your speech implied more than that," she said.
Lord Hayes determined to make a stand.
"You are very quick at finding meanings."
"What you said was insulting."
"It is insulting to you that he should call you Eva?"
"Do you admit, then, that your speech bore another meaning?"
Lord Hayes lit another cigarette.
"I admit nothing of the sort. Not at all."
"You will be so good as to apologise to him."
"I have no reason for supposing that he imagined it to bear any meaning but the obvious one—the one, in fact, which I meant to convey. Of course you are at liberty to explain to him that, if you choose."
For the first time Eva was conscious of a slight disadvantage, and Lord Hayes distinctly saw it. Asshe sat still silent, he looked at his watch and remarked,—
"I am afraid they propose to give us dinner at seven. It is a barbarous custom. Perhaps you would like to know that it is now five minutes to seven."
He carefully furled his white umbrella, and walked down the deck to the saloon. He made in his mind a careful little note of the occurrence, against that possible contingency of suspicion coming down the avenue. It was characteristic of him that he was as evenly polite as ever to Jim Armine, and advised him to drink white wine and not red, and remarked to him at tea afterwards that the Albert biscuits were stale, but that it was interesting to observe that the English manufactories of biscuits held their own abroad; in fact, that the makers of the stale Albert biscuits were Huntly & Palmer.
This suggestive little scene accounted, in his mind, for Eva's unusual want of politeness on the subject of his yachtsman's cap and brown canvas shoes. But he did not consider that a reason for abandoning them; in fact, they became to him a sort of commemorative medal on the occasion of his victory. A force which has an unbroken record of defeat is apt to dwell on a single and unexpected victory. In the main he was right in attributing Eva's irritation that morning to her slight discomfiture on the evening before, for though she had dismissed, or rather forgotten, the occurrence,there was still in her a latent resentment that unconsciously vented itself in this manner.
They had been at the villa four or five days, and Lord Hayes had got into the habit of observing his wife and Jim Armine somewhat closely. Eva was rather silent; to her husband she hardly spoke at all, though now and then at meals she would begin talking, more to herself than the others. Jim Armine was not a very wise young man, and he said things sometimes, that, with another woman, would have betrayed him, but Eva did not seem to notice them.
They were seated at lunch one day, when Eva took up her parable. She had said nothing at all, as her way was, for some minutes, and Lord Hayes had been describing to Jim how the eucalyptus oil was extracted from the tree.
"You must excuse my silence, Mr. Armine," she said, "but, you know, I have all sorts of recollections about this villa. We were here, you know, on our wedding tour, after we had been on the Riviera—just Hayes and myself—and we used to sit out in the garden and listen to the nightingales singing of love. It was very romantic; no doubt Hayes has spoken to you of it, when you pour out your hearts in the smoking-room, after I have gone to bed. It is always odd to me that men choose that time for being confidential. I should have thought it would have disturbed your night's rest."
"How do you know that we are confidential, then?" asked Jim.
"Why, of course you are; there isn't time to be confidential during the day. Besides, that is the only time when you are sure not to be invaded by women. I shall hide in the smoking-room some night and listen to what you say."
"There is nothing you might not hear," said her husband.
"You mean that, I suppose, in order to deter me from listening, assuming that, being a woman, I only care to hear what is not meant for my ears. But you said it very politely."
"Not at all; it was a formal invitation," said he, "an assurance of how entirely welcome you would be."
"Thanks. Of course you and I are under a sort of mutual compact to delight in each other's society at any time or place."
Lord Hayes laughed.
"One eternal honeymoon. Surely the golden age will return."
Jim Armine, not unnaturally, felt that this was distinctly a comedyà deux, and that the presence of a third person was unnecessary. But no man can leave his red mullet half eaten for such reasons. Everything goes to the wall before our material needs.
Lord Hayes's punctilious little manner always vanished in anything like a scene. He began to be self-possessedat exactly that point when most self-possessed people begin to be nervous and flurried, for his punctiliousness was the result not of nervousness, but a desire not to be nervous, and when the occasion was interesting enough to allow him to forget this, his tinge of finished cynicism and indifference to his fellow men assumed its natural predominance. He rather enjoyed a little polite sparring match with his wife, until he began to get the worst of it; as long as the buttons were on the foils he could fence very decently, but the sight of the bare point distinctly discomposed him.
Eva flushed.
"Let us reserve our raptures for when we are alone," she said. "They are slightly embarrassing to a third person."
Lord Hayes smiled. For the second time the banner of victory seemed to wave over his head. He saw his wife flush, and knew that she was very angry. That desire to avenge herself which she had felt so strongly on her return from her honeymoon, the sense that she had been trapped, and was being exhibited as a rare bird in a cage, was very strong in her; the added insolence of the trapper pretending to be on intimate and loving terms with her made her furious, and the consciousness that she had brought it upon herself, did not tend to diminish her rage. For the second time he was trying to make a fool of her before a third person.
How far a scene that took place a day or two afterthis was brought on by Eva's dislike of her husband and her thirst for vengeance, is not part of this narrative to determine. The chronicler's mission is not to form conclusions, but to present data, and my immediate mission is to present some rather important data.
Even in December, in Algiers, it is often pleasant to sit out of doors at nine in the evening, for the air is cool but dry, and Eva often spent an hour in the little open passage which ran round the central courtyard of the house, and in which, a year before, she had talked to her husband on the position of women. This time it was Jim Armine who was her companion; Lord Hayes had gone upstairs to write to his mother, and he proposed to give her some accurate descriptions, based on observation, about the date palm.