IT was toward the end of this same October that first Charles showed
real sign of restlessness under the yoke of his responsibilities.
Autumn was dead; drowned by the relentless rains, swept away by
battering winds that roared in the branches of the trees and flung
themselves against the walls of Morvane till the very house seemed to
shake.
Housebound, the squire played desultory billiards with his ward,
smoked endless pipes, pored over maps, read novels from the library;
occasionally, with Viola or alone, he fought his way through wind and
wet to the headquarters of the model farm, where he would sit, gravely
listening to the bailiff’s gloomy technicalities, striving to show an
interest, intelligent if uninformed, in the market successes during
the past year, in the results and progress of threshing, in the yield
and condition of the root crop. Now and again Wilkinson would call at
Morvane with a black bag stuffed with papers and, hour after hour,
would remain with his employer in the library. Charles would emerge at
tea-time and bring the agent to talk and laugh with Viola. The meal
over, with humorous resignation he would retire once more. “Sorry, my
dear. Wilkinson has no mercy!” And Wilkinson (discreet and admirable
Wilkinson) would smirk composedly, and bear in silence blame that
should properly have been laid on Michaelmas.
But at last the unaccustomed life, with its monotonous days and
evenings short in self-defence, could be endured no longer. That
fervour for parental rule that carried him one night not long ago
half-way across the lawn to beard his mother in her den, was now too
faint even for such truncated effort. The girl was well and cheerful;
he had forgiven her pettishness, forgotten the accents of the good
Belinda’s warning. Useless to sit and watch her healthy gaiety! Loudly
the world was calling.
“Look here,” he said at breakfast, “I promised to stay at home all the
year, didn’t I? It’s fair to take you away with me and go earlier?”
She exclaimed delightedly:
“Where to, Charles?”
“Let’s go to Rome for Christmas. We’ll stop in Paris on our way.
Clothes, you know.”
“Lovely! But shan’t I be a nuisance in Paris?”
He made a face.
“None of that, you wicked girl. I know your little game by now!”
She laughed and beat her hands upon the table.
“I didn’t mean it, Charles! I didn’t! I thought you’d have to go
everywhere with me and that might be a bore.”
“So it might,” he agreed cheerfully, “but I’ll risk it. You can always
be locked in your bedroom for a few hours or put in the left-luggage
office at the nearest station, if I feel I can’t bear you any longer.”
Thus was it settled. In six weeks’ time these two would flit for Paris,
whence to enjoyment of the vast ceremonial of a Roman Christmas. Viola
hugged herself, so dear in prospect was the promised journey.
She had endured more readily than her guardian these wild weeks of
October storm. Leeway in reading called to be recovered; leeway in
peace of mind no less. The two were so nearly one, that a period of
enforced repose came aptly. But all the same, and logically, she
welcomed thought of change. Her mind was not wholly easy. Still she
reproached herself her tartness to the Grays; still was she haunted by
the wounded face of the first man, as yet, to speak of love to her;
still, though more gravely, must she ponder what this love might be.
Daniel had written, a letter that was moving for all its casualness of
language:
“Dear Viola,--
“I haven’t much to say except that I can’t understand why I was such
an idiot at Morvane. It was inexcusable to startle you like that. At
the same time I wasn’t romancing. All the beautiful things you didn’t
stop to hear are quite true and exceptionally well phrased. You’ll
hear them sometime. They’re too good to waste. Perhaps one day you’ll
feel a little kinder. God bless you, my dear.
“DANIEL.”
“Poor Dan!” she thought, putting the letter carefully away. “He’s
rather a dear.”
Then Charles had been awfully sweet about the Grays. He had not
reproached her any more; merely had said once, a little diffidently:
“Will you try and make friends with the Grays sometime? To please me?
I’m sure that girl is a good sort. Forget your first sight of them. It
was more my fault than anyone’s; I should have fixed an introduction
more suitable to both parties.” She had ruffled his hair, kissed the
top of his head, and whispered that she would do her best. Here was
another use for weather-bound leisure; valiantly she wrestled with a
prejudice none the less bitter for being admittedly unjust.
A day came when a November of pale distant skies restored to Morvane
at least wintry sunshine. Charles took his gun and pottered about the
park. With Viola he rode to meets; followed for an hour or so. But in
all that he did was languor--the languor of thwarted restlessness.
Viola challenged him at last.
“Charles, word of honour, are you bored to tears?”
“Well--no, not to tears----” he temporized.
“What do you want to do? Where would you be if I didn’t exist?”
“If you never had existed, I suppose?”
“Don’t quibble. Answer my question.”
“Upon my word, my dear, I hardly know. Florida, perhaps. Or London.”
“Then go to London. The other’s too far. I won’t be done out of my
Paris and Rome.”
“You shan’t,” he promised. “As for London, I said I’d stay here.”
“But not day in, day out, you old stupid! Go for a week.”
The reluctance with which at last he consented to her plan was
discounted by his immediate cheerfulness. Life had its zest once more.
“Come up too, Viola! James will take you in.”
She shook her head.
“I’d rather be here.”
Giving her a look of sharp inquiry, he said no more. The next day he
was gone.
* * * * *
A message came from the old lady in the tower. Hearing Viola was alone,
she would enjoy a visit. The girl climbed the stone stairs, obedient
to a tea-time summons. The stairs were steep, and she breathed quickly
as she came once more into the high parlour above the branches of the
cedars.
“Come in, my dear. You are out of breath? You do not like my lift? You
think it is too old-fashioned, like its mistress! But it does well
enough. The ropes are good. They have to be. A broken rope and a broken
neck, in _my_ old lift; as primitive as that! I hope you do not
mind my asking you to pay me a little call? Two lonely women--we must
be kind to one another.”
Viola smiled courteously and sought her former seat by the window.
She was determined to keep her head and to allow no ugly memories of
her last visit disturb her self-control. As before, the pale-haired
Bathsheba brought in the tea-table and its varied burdens; as before,
she threw Viola a quick, malevolent glance. This time, however, the
girl, taking the initiative, disconcerted the sour-faced maid. She
nodded brightly.
“Good afternoon, Bathsheba. How seldom we seem to meet! I hope you are
well.”
The woman looked at her mistress, but made no reply. Mrs. Plethern made
vicarious acknowledgment of Miss Marvell’s kind inquiry. Bathsheba was
never ill; she went over to the house frequently, but of course only to
the servants’ quarters. During the old lady’s speech the serving-woman
hurried through her duties and shuffled from the room.
“You quite frightened her,” remarked Mrs. Plethern. “Her conversational
talents are more private than public. She talks to me. But then I am
old, and old women make good listeners.”
As tea progressed, Viola was aware of her hostess’ increasing vivacity.
Perhaps the old lady was piqued by the girl’s self-possession and
calm amiability; perhaps she realized that their relative positions
had changed and that she was now talking rather to an equal than to a
nervous inferior.
“So Charles has flitted at last?” she said almost gaily. “I expected he
would, sooner or later. Bachelors are slaves to their habits; married
men’s habits are their wives. What is he up to?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied Viola. “He’s gone to town; that’s all I know.”
“But we can have a shrewd guess, can’t we? Men have this advantage
over women--they are freer. Of course you girls to-day go everywhere
and do what you like, but when I was young--so long ago, my dear, that
I can afford to remember it--a girl might do nothing, go nowhere, say
nothing--that mattered.”
“It must have been very dull.”
“Dull? At times, yes. But we made our opportunities for amusement, all
the same. We were not quite the lily innocents our elders thought us.
Odd how the convention of innocent girlhood persists. I suspect it is
deliberately kept alive by parents who are afraid themselves of being
found out. And then girls are shy of being frank, even with themselves,
even with each other. Aren’t they, my dear?”
“Are they? I don’t know any girls to speak of.”
“There’s Corinne.”
“Oh, Corinne! She’s a child still!”
The old woman noted her guest’s progression and approved it. She
persisted:
“But if you _had_ girl friends?”
“If I had, I should know my own business best,” said Viola, smiling.
Mrs. Plethern shook a playful finger.
“So you would, I’ll be bound! And quite right, too. Have a good time,
but keep the best times quiet. Now that Charles has run away to amuse
himself, you will look about for amusement too, I expect?”
Viola shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m very happy here,” she said indifferently.
“Ah! that is good. You read a lot this bad weather?”
“A good deal, yes.”
“What do you read?”
“Oh, novels and poetry. I’ve been reading also about Morvane--and
Rockarvon.”
“Rockarvon? That is a strange place. You have been there?”
Viola nodded.
“Once.”
Mrs. Plethern seemed to tarry on further confidence, but, none coming,
resumed:
“My husband had a long quarrel with Lord Rockarvon. He must be an
obstinate and loathsome man. I believe he is still alive. Never shall
I forget the way he behaved to us!”
“Did you lose your case, then?”
“No!” indignantly. “It was too good a case to lose. The tragedy
was that we were defrauded of victory, defrauded by hair-splitting
lawyers!” She paused, a little breathless with the energy of her
resentment. “There, there; I must not get launched on my greatest
grievance. It excites me and would weary you. Ask your guardian about
Rockarvon and see what he says.”
“Yes, I must do that,” agreed Viola, consciously insincere.
While Bathsheba removed the tea things, she wandered about the room,
looking at book titles, at the few playing cards displayed in cases,
at the strange assortment of pictures on the walls. These last
were particularly curious. There were a number of pale Victorian
water-colours of gardens and cornfields and embowered village spires,
mounted in wide, white mounts foxed with damp and framed narrowly in
gold. There were two Arundel prints, one of Sodoma’s “San Sebastian,”
the other of the Creation of Man from the Sistine Fresco. There was a
steel engraving of a picture of “Susannah and the Elders,” by an artist
unknown or, at any rate, undisclosed. Here and there, scattered among
these reputable if unexpected classics, were etchings and drawings of a
very different kind.
“Who is Rops?” asked Viola suddenly.
The old lady blinked at the abrupt inquiry. Then:
“A French artist, my dear; a modern. Clever, but hardly a painter for
young girls. My collection of pictures is not meant for inexperienced
eyes.”
“Now you are upholding the lily-innocent fallacy, Mrs Plethern!”
The hostess chuckled gleefully.
“Quick, my dear!” she said approvingly. “Go on and look at whatsoever
you will. I give you the freedom of my walls.”
Viola continued her inspection until, in a corner near the inner door,
she found a drawing that pierced even the armoured calm with which, for
this tea-party, she had girt herself. Flushing she turned toward the
centre of the room. Mrs. Plethern saw the flush and guessed its reason.
She changed the subject.
“Come and sit down, child. I want to hear about your visit to my son
James and to the Grieves. Did they look after you nicely?”
“They were very kind to me,” replied Viola, “and I went to Lords to see
the University match and to theatres and round the shops.”
“I expect Corinne and Christopher were delighted to have so charming a
cousin to take about. Christopher is a fine boy; though he is my nephew
I must say that of him. He’ll be a fine man, too. Of course, he is his
uncle’s heir. Morvane will be his some day.”
Viola did not answer. For a moment the old lady wondered whether her
announcement were so interesting, so lavish of significance, that the
girl still feasted on its implications; but at the first glance she
saw that her guest, so far from being too intrigued to speak, was not
intrigued enough even to comment formally on Christopher’s brilliant
prospects. She tried again:
“You made friends with Christopher, I hope?”
“I think so,” said Viola carelessly. “He despises me rather, because
I’m not cricket mad.”
“He is still a lad,” urged Mrs. Plethern. “You must make allowances for
that. In a few years’ time he’ll have older interests--young ladies,
for example.”
Viola was conscious of a sudden anger. She realized that she was
suspected of belittling Christopher because he had not paid homage
sufficient to her young female vanity. Thoughtlessly and on the impulse
of her irritation, she said:
“Let us hope that he’ll learn also how to behave when he’s with them!”
“What do you mean, child?”
But Viola had repented her hasty words and withdrawn once more behind
the shield of her reserve.
“Only what I say, Mrs. Plethern,” she replied, and the words, spoken a
shade tartly, had a rudeness that the speaker recognized and instantly
regretted.
But too late. Had she known it, they merited much more than mere
regret. They roused Mrs. Plethern to sudden fury. The insolent chit had
snubbed her, had checked what seemed a promising revelation, had--worst
of all--recovered so quickly from her false step that her inquisitor
had failed to profit by it.
Perhaps the old lady’s anger would have been cause sufficient for
regret. Unluckily there were others. When the words were spoken, Mrs.
Plethern was inclining, not to fondness but to tolerance toward Viola.
She liked the girl’s spirit; she saw possibility of so moulding it, so
guiding its precocity, as to achieve without troublesome cruelty the
purpose that engrossed both her and James, her son. Now, in the sudden
furnace of her rage, that tolerance fell to crumbling ashes. After all,
then, she had won no ascendancy over this interloper, this so-called
‘orphan’ from Canada! The hussy cared so little for a valuable
ally, was so confident in her own power to win her way and hold her
unexpected fortune, that she turned impudent the moment fancy bid her!
Very well, the choice was made. Rowena Plethern brooked impudence
from no one. Those she could not punish, she sombrely ignored; those
she could crush, she crushed. From the moment of those unhappy words,
Viola’s ruin, if it lay within Mrs. Plethern’s power of compassing,
was assured. From the moment of their utterance, also, finished the
tea-party. Joyful Viola, to escape thus quickly from that lonely tower!
Unhappy Viola, to face in ignorance a lonely life; to face in ignorance
the ruthless hatred of a ruthless enemy!