CHRISTOPHER PLETHERN, newly elected to White’s and vastly conscious
of his increased importance, dined his friend Daniel during the week
preceding Christmas.
“Smart work getting in so quickly,” he explained gleefully. “Uncle
Charles did the trick for me. Put me up, chose my seconder and
collected men to sign their names. I’m fearfully bucked with life!”
Daniel drank his sherry and bitters and drew thoughtfully at a
cigarette.
“You’ll be good at clubs, Chris,” he said. “Just the fellow for them.”
Unsuspicious, the new member threw out his chest and accepted this
tribute with a cheery shake of the head.
“A fellow wants somewhere,” he observed. “Can’t hang about home all the
time. Drink finished? Let’s go and feed.”
Wine was an essential feature of the evening’s menu, and the host was
flushed and genial as in the smoking-room they settled to old brandy
and cigars. Daniel, of a complexion less susceptible and of a habit
more abstemious, watched his friend with quiet amusement.
“You’ll be at Lavenham for Christmas?” queried the host.
Daniel nodded.
“Yes. Mother has one or two folks coming. No one exciting. Do you want
to come?”
“I’d love to, old man! Jolly kind of you. The trouble is----” He broke
off and added in a low, embarrassed whisper: “Viola won’t be there,
will she?”
“My good lad, she’s in Rome. With your Uncle. But why shouldn’t you
come to Lavenham even if she _is_ there, or should I say even if
she isn’t?”
Chris blushed uncomfortably, emptied his glass at one toss, smacked
his lips and assumed the air of half-baked connoisseurship that is the
undergraduate’s normal reaction to liquor.
“Good that!” he remarked inconsequently. “A specialty of ours here, the
brandy. Think I’ll have another. You’ll join me?”
“No, thanks. I’ve not finished this yet. But you go ahead.”
With some delay further supplies were obtained. Then Daniel repeated
his question--a little disingenuously:
“You were telling me how Viola would affect your coming to stay with
us. You’ll get a room to yourself, you know, in any case!”
“Shut up, Dan! I’d like to come fearfully. Get fed up, bouncing about
under the paternal roof all the time. But they go on at me so, you
know.”
“Go on at you! What about?”
“Why, about Viola, dear old ass! Aren’t I telling you?”
“Who are ‘they’?” asked Daniel.
“Oh, the governor and my mother. Always nagging to know when I saw her
last and when I’m going to see her again and when I’m to be at home so
that she can come and stay with us. She’s a jolly nice girl and all
that, but I’m damned if I want to keep her in spirits of wine on my
mantelpiece!”
Daniel was by now thoroughly interested. He simulated lack of
understanding.
“But what’s all the fuss about, Chris? Give me a hint.”
Christopher gestured the weariness of a society darling.
“What’s it _about_? They’re doing their best for both of us, as
the saying goes.”
“Oh, I see. Well, she’s a beautiful creature. I commend their taste.”
“No, no, my dear chap, it’s not _that_! It’s Morvane.”
Daniel, hard put to it to preserve his gravity, shook a puzzled head.
“For pity’s sake, Chris! You talk like an acrostic editor. My first
cannot be kept on the mantelpiece; my second----”
“Dan, your stupidity is amazing!” Chris turned impressively to his
friend and spoke with the deliberation of much alcohol. “Don’t you
realize, my boy, that to all intents and purposes that girl is Uncle
Charles’ daughter?”
“Really, Chris!” said Daniel with affected concern. “You fill me with
apprehension!”
“No, you old ass, I don’t mean _that_! Good Lord, no, not
_that_!” He chuckled foolishly. “No--I mean that she stands to him
in the what’s-his-name of child to parent.”
Daniel raised his eyebrows.
“Does she though? You don’t mean it!”
“I _do_ mean it, old man. Every word of it. Child to parent. And
what do children do? Inherit, old man. And what’s to prevent Uncle
Charles making that girl his heir? Tell me that!”
“Dear old thing, ask me another.”
“Well, there you are? That’s what papa and mamma have got into their
heads, and that’s why they push Miss Viola down my throat morning, noon
and night. I don’t like it, Dan. It’s a nuisance, for one thing, and
it’s rotten bad luck on the girl for another--let alone me.”
“It must be very tiresome,” agreed Daniel. “Anyway, she won’t be at
Lavenham at Christmas, so you’ll be safe. I’ll promise that not a soul
shall set snares for your young feet. You shan’t even be introduced to
a female poodle. How’s that?”
“Thanks awfully!” said Chris heartily. “You’re a brick, Dan. I’ll come
like a shot. Christmas Eve?”
“Christmas Eve or the twenty-third. Whenever you like. I’m going down
to-morrow.”
The afternoon of his arrival, Daniel joined his mother in her little
sitting-room. He shut the door carefully and took a seat by the fire.
Lady Grieve glanced over her shoulder as he came in, nodded and smiled
and went on writing letters. After a short pause:
“May I smoke, mumsie?”
“Of course, dear,” without turning round. There was a further silence.
“Mumsie, I’m a bit worried about Viola.”
Lady Grieve put down her pen and moved in her chair.
“Worried about her, Dan? Why?”
He looked at her, patted the chair next his invitingly and said:
“Come and sit here, like a darling, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She obeyed, wondering at his unaccustomed seriousness. “I dined with
Chris last night,” began Daniel, “and he got a little talkative after
dinner. It was a very good dinner, and that had something to do with
it! Incidentally he told me that his parents were rather obviously
throwing Viola at his head. Now, in the first place I don’t see that
it is quite their business to throw Viola anywhere; secondly, I’m sure
Charles Plethern wouldn’t like it; thirdly, I can imagine that Viola
herself would not be enthusiastic.”
“And fourthly it is conceivable that some one else is frankly furious,”
said his mother, smiling.
Daniel shrugged his shoulders plaintively.
“I’m afraid your fourthly is academic, mumsie. I’m not on in this act.”
She patted his hand.
“I was only teasing you, my dear. Go on with what you were saying.”
“Well--it’s nothing to do with me, I know, but it may be more to do
with you; anyway, you are the person to deal with the matter if it
_can_ be dealt with--what I don’t like is the thought of that girl
alone at Morvane with only old Mrs. Plethern for company, and Mr. James
on the hop as he seems to be, and Charles, lord knows where....”
“But, Dan, she’s _with_ him! And he’s been at home all autumn!”
“Not quite all, mums. I met him in town a month ago, and he confessed
that he hadn’t been able to stick Morvane any longer and had taken a
week’s leave. You’ll see, when they get back from Rome, that he’ll be
off again.”
Lady Grieve turned her son’s words carefully in her mind.
“I’m afraid you may be right about that, my dear,” she said. “Charles
has the globe-trotting habit, and he can’t take a young girl everywhere
with him. I wish he’d let her come here. Failing that, I wish he’d
find some companion for her at Morvane. I tried to persuade him to
the first, and then dared to hint the second, but it was no good. He
was too full of his new resolution. That type of man always thinks a
fresh enthusiasm will last for ever. In September he talked as though
he would stay at home for years. But aren’t you a little exaggerating
the other side of the picture? Mrs. Plethern is not a lively companion,
but she can’t harm the child, and, after all, whatever we may think
of James Plethern’s schemes, they depend on Viola’s agreement and on
Charles’ consent to become practical politics, don’t they?”
“Listen to me, mums. Old Mrs. Plethern adores James--you know that,
of course; I believe it was you told me in a moment of indiscretion!
She will do all she can to please him. If he wants to catch Viola for
Chris, she’ll do her almighty best to help him. There’s a lot can be
done by persistent influence--on a girl’s mind--isn’t there, mumsie,
dear?”
Lady Grieve looked compassionately at her son. She had a very shrewd
idea of his feeling for Viola; felt moderately certain that he had
expressed that feeling, in one way or another, and had been badly
received. It was melancholy to hear him thus impersonally discuss the
situation of a girl he loved, but had not won. Her own mind in the
matter was divided. More than most things in the world she wished
Daniel to be happy; but she was very fond of Viola for herself, and
it was not in her nature to sacrifice one loyal affection to another.
So far as her son’s love affair was concerned, things must take their
course; her problem in the question of Viola’s solitary life at Morvane
was to disentangle from Daniel’s inevitable prejudice the real truth of
the girl’s position and its possible unpleasantness.
She replied instantly to her son’s pathetic questioning.
“I suppose that the mind of anyone can be influenced, sooner or later,
by continual suggestion,” she said, “but Viola has plenty of will of
her own. She won’t be easily driven where she doesn’t want to go.”
“All the same,” he said obstinately, “it’s not right that she should be
there, quite by herself, with that beastly old woman!”
“Dan, darling!” cried his mother. “You mustn’t say things like that.”
“She _is_ a beastly old woman, mums! You know she is. Only we’re
always too polite to say so.”
Lady Grieve thought well to leave Mrs. Plethern’s character undebated.
“I have an idea,” she said. “Would it satisfy you to feel that there
were nice people a few miles away, whom Viola could go and see often,
with whom she could get friendly?”
He shook his head sceptically.
“Are you going to move to Gloucestershire, mums? Or are you going to
colonize the neighbourhood?”
“No, silly. I mean the Grays, and particularly Madeleine Gray. How
forlorn the poor girl was at that ridiculous party! I could have
smacked Charles for being such a fool as to drag her into it! Did you
meet Madeleine Gray?”
“No. Who is she?”
“They live at Clonsall. Five miles from Morvane. She’s a really nice,
wholesome girl: at least, so she seemed to me, and I had a good talk
with her. If Viola could be persuaded to make friends with her, go
there and get Miss Gray to Morvane--how would that be?”
“It would be better than nothing,” he said ungraciously, “but not
what’s really needed.”
She kissed him and laughed softly.
“No, my dear. But, unluckily your idea of what is really needed is not
every one’s idea. Not at present, at any rate. There! Cheer up! I’ll
write to Miss Gray at once. Then your young woman will have pleasant
friends and not be forlorn any longer.”
He rose unhappily.
“Thanks, mums,” he said listlessly. “You’re a darling. I suppose that’s
the only thing one can do for the moment.”
Lady Grieve, left alone to continue her letters, spent none the less a
good half-hour in pondering her son’s adventure in romance. They are
severe tests for young womanhood, these half-hour mental scrutinies by
maybe mothers-in-law. That Viola emerged as creditably as she did was,
in some sort, a tribute to her old school, for it was at Lavenham she
had learnt the first lesson of her power, at Lavenham that first her
power had shown itself.
§ 2
If Lavenham was school and Morvane ‘coming out,’ then Rome was college.
What Lavenham had begun and Morvane nearly spoilt, Rome put in final
shape, moulding or mellowing. To all concerned, credit for their share!
To Viola, for her aptness and her industry; to the men and women of the
English colony for their hospitable homes that were a stage for the
new star’s rehearsals, for their polish and experience that prompted
the halting speaking of her lines; to Rome, for her seven hills, her
yellow, rolling river, her mighty past, her strenuous, squalid present;
lastly, to Charles the guardian, not for fulfilment of a guardian’s
duty, but for a moment of preoccupation that let him turn one door
handle when he had thought to turn another. Credit to all; for each and
all brought something to the shaping of the third Viola, a Viola as
different from the pert tyrant of September Morvane as had been that
tricksey miss from the girl who, at the graveside of an embittered
father, turned from the new world to face the unknown adventure of the
old.
For Daniel Grieve, perhaps deservedly, was kept the privilege of
witnessing almost the first appearance of the newest Viola on English
soil.
Seated at a typewriter he was painfully rendering an official
memorandum on some aspect of the sardine industry for ultimate
transmission to the British Minister to Norway. An office-keeper bent
respectfully to his engrossment.
“A lady to see you, sir.”
“Tell her to go away,” said Daniel, struggling with the spelling of a
Norwegian fishing village.
“She particularly wished to speak to you, sir. Only for a moment, she
said.”
Daniel straightened his back and spoke with the abruptness of
irritation.
“What’s her name?”
“She preferred to give no name; said you would know her when you saw
her, sir.”
A fellow bureaucrat, sharer of Daniel’s room, tendered his mite.
“They never give their names,” he observed gravely. “Poor, trusting
souls that give their all--except their names!”
Daniel shied a box of paper-clips at his colleague, and for the first
time faced the office-keeper with some show of interest.
“What’s she like? Old?”
“Not at all old, sir.”
“Oh, no my son. Not at all old!” echoed the brother official. His voice
was muffled; he was on the floor, gathering paper-clips.
“Well, I suppose I must go and see what’s up,” said Daniel peevishly.
“Damn nuisance. I’ve got this muck to finish before lunch. Gresley, you
blighter, you’ve nothing in this world to do; suppose you take part of
it for me.” Silence. “Gresley! What in hell are you doing?”
“Looking for mushrooms, old man! Ver’ busy!” The voice came distantly.
Faint scufflings indicated the cautious movements of its owner. Daniel
shrugged his shoulders and walked pettishly down the corridor to
the waiting-room. For a moment, the light being in his eyes and his
intelligence clogged by irritation, he did not realize his visitor’s
identity. Then:
“Viola!” he cried. “By all that’s wonderful!”
She had held out her hands to him. Hardly knowing it, before his senses
fully returned to him, he was holding them. Gently he let them fall,
murmuring an apology.
“Don’t Dan!” she said pleadingly. “Forget all that. Take
them, Dan! Here they are. That’s better. I’ve come to see you
because--because--well, because we’ve just got back.” She hurried
on; “I know you’re awfully busy and I won’t interrupt you now, but
perhaps----”
“Busy!” he shouted. “My dear girl, I’ve oceans of time! You’ll lunch?
Do! It’s a quarter to one now.”
“I hoped you might suggest lunch,” she confessed. “I’ll wait for you
while you finish what you are doing.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Daniel airily. “I’ll be with you in two
twos.”
He raced to his room. Gresley regarded him sadly from his table by the
window.
“I’ve got to go out,” said Daniel hurriedly. “Fearfully important.
Finish those damned sardines, there’s a good fellow. I’ll do the same
for you next time.”
“I hate sardines,” the other remarked bitterly.
“Prefer mushrooms, I suppose!” grinned Daniel. He was pulling on his
overcoat, brushing his hat, hunting his gloves and stick.
Gresley sighed deeply and walked slowly across the room to the
typewriter. For a moment he examined the text of which a typed draft
was required.
“Did you write this?” he asked gloomily.
Daniel, his hand on the door-knob, nodded cheerfully.
“What language is it supposed to be? I can’t type a dialect. I don’t
know any. This word, for instance--Here!”--(as the door swung to behind
the departing author)--“Half a second!”
Daniel’s footsteps clicked over the tiling of the corridor. With a
smile Gresley settled to his work.
“Got it bad!” he said to himself.
It was early March and a raw, blustering morning. At the corner of
Downing Street, Daniel and Viola found a hansom.
“I say, it’s jolly to see you!” he said foolishly, as they settled in
the cab.
She smiled at him and her skin was never more lovely, her eyes never
more liquid, more intensely blue.
“Have you had a good time?”
“Splendid! Charles knew lots of people in Rome, and we went everywhere.
He was so sweet, all the time.”
“Sorry to come back, I suppose?”
“Not a bit. I’m very glad. There are various debts I owe.”
“Debts?” he looked at her puzzled, until a hint of embarrassment in her
steady gaze warned him that she had spoken seriously and that the act
had needed courage. He passed quickly to other topics.
“Where are you staying?”
“With the Jameses. I’ll be there a few days. Then home to Morvane.”
“And the guardian? Where’s he?”
She laughed.
“Oh, he’s at his club for two nights; then he goes to Morvane. He was
angelic about it, trying to find out if I’d mind his not coming to
Montagu Square.” She paused for a moment and added: “It’s an awful
shame, you know, him being saddled with me! I’m fearfully in the way.”
Arrival at the restaurant saved Daniel from the indiscretion of an
obvious reply. They were early comers and found a table discreet and
comfortable. With small talk and merriment the meal went gaily. When,
however, they were left alone to their coffee, Viola, with a slight
blush, asked:
“Are you angry with me for not answering your letter?”
He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.
“I--I---- Really I didn’t know how to answer,” she went on softly. “You
see--I felt such a beast!”
“A beast!” he said, a little breathlessly. “Darling child, you could
never be that.”
She nodded vigorously.
“Oh, yes, I could. And was. Indeed, when I think myself over, I seem to
have been one persistently last summer. Just a beast.”
“Viola!” he pleaded. “Don’t talk like that! I hate to hear you. It
was my fault entirely, my impertinent clumsy fault. My only excuse
is”--with a short, shy laugh--“that I meant it so awfully----” He
paused, and she waited with bent head for his next words. “I still mean
it, Viola, mean it more awfully than ever----”
She was working a ring nervously to and fro; her eyes were downcast;
he could see her breast rising and falling rapidly; she was in the
agitation of a necessary but difficult reply, a reply so difficult
that, although she had gone that morning to the Foreign Office solely
in order to make it, she could find neither the right words for it nor
the self-possession with which to speak them. At last, with a great
effort and in a voice so low and husky that he could hardly hear it,
she began:
“Daniel--I want to tell you something--several things. I’ve been
thinking and thinking about them, how to tell them and--at last I
determined I’d come and see you as soon as I got back. I’ve done
that--and seen you--but they are no easier to say....” She stopped
and thought, desperately, uselessly. He recognized her urgent
confusion, and neither spoke nor moved. “To begin with,” she went on
hurriedly--and for a second her lids flashed upward and her great
eyes, cloudy with embarrassment, met his: “To begin with--that time in
the garden....” He held his breath; slowly she was blushing, royally
blushing over face and neck. “That time ... and what you said ... it
was dear of you, Dan, and only a conceited little fiend of a girl would
have done what I did. I’m pretty well conscious of my beastliness now.
You’ll believe that, won’t you? Forget it all; it wasn’t me, it was
only a stuck-up, piggish imitation of me. Only....” Impulsively she
raised her eyes and stretching her hand across the table touched his
arm. “Only, Dan, I _can’t_! Not yet certainly; perhaps never. No!
Don’t interrupt. Let me try and finish. I can’t, because of Charles. It
sounds fearfully priggish and you’ll think me a prude and an old maid,
but I do so want you to try and understand. Of course you know that
Charles ... that he ... I mean, you know how he used to rush about and
know lots of women ... and travel about with them. You know that, don’t
you? Every one does, don’t they? Well, I didn’t. Not properly. I heard
people say things and your mother gave me a hint, like the darling she
is, and his mother kept suggesting ... but I was terribly innocent and
terribly conceited and just didn’t take it in. Somehow I understood the
words but not their meaning--if that is at all sense...?”
She stopped and looked at him with a wistful smile. He could see the
tears shining in the corners of her eyes. An immense pity for her shook
him from head to foot. He nodded encouragement and tried to smile.
“Go on, child,” he said gently.
Perhaps something of his sympathy crossed the table and strengthened
her. Certainly, when again she spoke, it was with greater control of
voice and words:
“In Rome I began to understand.... One thing and another, you know.
I heard two men talking: one evening at a party; Charles and I were
near by. One said: ‘Comic idea, the Man of Pleasure tooting a flapper
round the place!’ and the other agreed, saying something I--well, I
understood as much as I wanted to. Then we came across a woman there.
She is rather a great lady now in Roman society, an Italian, and she
greeted Charles in a curious way that made me wonder. He seemed so
uncomfortable and so anxious to leave her, that I wondered more and
more. Then we went to a comic opera; then----” she stopped abruptly,
blushed amazingly once again, gathered her wits and smiled shyly: “I
think I’ll leave that, if you’ll be a dear and let me. Let it stand
that gradually--I can’t exactly explain to you _how_ I came
to realize what every one had tried to tell me; that kind of thing
comes so variously and from so many, many directions--that slowly
and gradually I _did_ realize what sort of life Charles had led
and--this was more important--what a tremendous difference _I_
was making to his whole existence.”
“I don’t see anything very priggish in all this,” he said.
“It’s coming,” she replied, “just coming. I was not _shocked_
with Charles. Not one bit. Perhaps I ought to have been, but I had got
too fond of him. Besides I began to understand that men are like that,
and often the nicest men most like it. After all, it doesn’t matter
much, I suppose. I hated that woman, though; she was like a snake.
What worried me was that a splendid man like Charles should waste his
time over women of that kind. I assumed that, in one way or another,
all his ... friends ... were more or less of the same type. That was,
perhaps, stupid, but I thought it. And I saw that there was one thing
that prevented him going back to them--one thing only--_me_. How
can I make it sound less righteous and horrid? I don’t mean that I am a
soul-influence or anything like that, but....”
This time her pause was one of distress. He felt her grope for words.
“You think that as Charles Plethern has taken you on, he won’t lightly
shirk his job. Isn’t that your idea?”
She nodded, first doubtfully, then more positively.
“Ye ... es. Yes, I think that will do. But I mustn’t hustle it. He must
be got to _prefer_ being with me to being with.... No, that’s not
quite right, but I want to let him down gently, not force my claims on
him. He’s so angelic to me always that I couldn’t ask too much, even if
it were wise. But I must stick by him and I think in the end he’ll get
tired of knocking about all over the world. _Now_ do you see why
I say I can’t let you ... let you tell me.... Oh, Dan, I do like you,
really I do, and I hate having to hurt you like this!”
“No, Viola. You haven’t hurt me; you’ve done me good. Your plans and
all you’ve told me--well, they make me surer than ever. That’s all.
But----” He paused uncertainly. She looked quickly across the table.
“Go on!” she commanded. “But what?”
“What makes you think that Charles _can_ be won round, _can_
be ‘converted’ as it were? Habits are not easy to change. Won’t he be
restless and bored? What I’m trying to say is, do you think the ‘duty’
argument is strong enough to alter him? Will it merely be a brake, to
be taken off at the bottom of the hill? Will he, before long, be in a
hurry to get free again and----”
“And dispose of me?” she interrupted. “No, Dan, I don’t think so. I’ll
tell you something else that happened. When we were in Paris going out,
we met at an afternoon party Lord Rockarvon----”
Daniel gave a sudden exclamation. She smiled slightly.
“Yes, but _I_ didn’t know what sort of a man he was, Dan,” she
went on ruefully. “How should I? He flattered me and admired me and you
must remember that I was still the vain little fool of last autumn.
We went to lunch there, and after lunch Charles suddenly took me away
and got angry when I bothered to know what had happened. Then in Rome,
after a bit, I went to him and asked him seriously to tell me about
Lord Rockarvon and why we’d gone in the first place and why there
was a quarrel. He wouldn’t for a long while, but at last he did. I
can’t repeat quite everything, for Charles told me not to, but what
happened was that Lord Rockarvon wanted to marry me and offered Charles
something he wanted most frightfully in return for his consent.”
Daniel frowned his disgust.
“Ugh! If that isn’t the limit!”
“So Charles told him,” said Viola. “I don’t know what was said, but
they were very angry with each other. Then we came away. Well, you see,
Dan, if Charles wanted to get rid of me, that was one chance, wasn’t
it? Also, if he felt I was merely a duty, he would surely have taken an
opportunity of my making so glorious a match--think of me a Countess,
Dan! Isn’t it absurd?--particularly if the glorious match at the same
time gave him what he so awfully wanted.”
Daniel shook his head.
“No, my dear. I’m afraid you don’t convince me. No one short of a
monster would let you marry Rockarvon, and our revered friend and
guardian certainly isn’t a monster. But he may be a tough one to wean
from his evil ways, all the same.”
She looked disappointed and a little abashed.
“Then you think I’m just a silly girl, talking romantic rubbish?”
“Indeed no. You are the loveliest crusader that ever took the road. But
it may be a long road, an uncommonly long road....”
Immediately she cheered.
“I’m game,” she said, “provided I get there in the end.”
Thereafter they sat for several minutes in silence, each thinking his
thoughts, each pondering the other’s words. Daniel looked at his watch.
“I must get back, Viola. It’s been heavenly seeing you and I’m more
honoured than I can say by your telling me all this. Shall I see you
again?”
“You might,” she said thoughtfully. “Do you ever call at Montagu
Square?”
“I am intending to do so to-morrow,” he replied gravely.
As they walked to the door he inquired her future plans.
“I expect I shall stay at Morvane for a while. You see”--a perceptible
hesitation--“so far as I know, Charles isn’t going away again--at
present.”
As on an earlier occasion, he heard the note of embarrassment and
effort in her voice. Perhaps she feared his mockery, his scepticism. If
so, she was quickly reassured, for all his feeling toward her was love,
and to love pity is sister.
“That’s excellent,” he said quietly.
After putting her into a cab, he walked thoughtfully away. The glow of
her physical presence removed, he felt tired and a little miserable.
She had been gentle and sweet to him, but there was no encouragement
in her sweetness for all his protestations of a new cheerfulness. The
quixotism of her attitude to Charles Plethern touched but troubled
him. Her self-abasement made him love her the more, but he dreaded yet
another awakening for that ardent, questing spirit. “I’m game,” she had
said, “provided I get there in the end.” With a wry smile he appraised
her valour. “Darling child,” he thought, “she’ll get there all right,
but I doubt if she’ll recognize the place as that for which she set
out.”
She had said, “There is one thing that prevents him going back--one
thing only--_me_.” What if Charles came to agree with her? She
had blushing said: “I think I’ll leave that, if you’ll be a dear and
let me.” Leave what? Almost he shrank from speculation. Obscurely
he recognized for the key of the Roman puzzle, that unavowed,
blush-raising incident, the incident Viola had ‘left,’ the incident he
had been dear enough to let her leave. Damn the incident! He braced
his shoulders and cursed himself for a maudlin fool. “Jealous of a
man old enough to be her father,” he told himself indignantly. “A man
who to all intents and purposes is her father!” But the clouds of
dissatisfaction gathered and rolled up again. He was poor company for
Gresley during the long afternoon.
§ 3
The feelings of Charles Plethern toward guardianship and its duties
had at least surface correspondence to Viola’s reading of them. His
sojourn in Rome and the revisiting of scenes well known during an
earlier existence had demonstrated with concrete vigour the change
implicit in his new position. At first he had rather savoured the
novelty than rebelled against it. Although in the sleeping-car from
Paris he had lain wakeful, turning in his mind the strange events of
Rockarvon’s luncheon party, torturing himself with thoughts of an
ambition so nearly realized, his righteous detestation of the creature
who had tempted him persisted glowingly. In the dim light he had stared
wide-eyed at the faint, swinging bulk of his clothes upon their hook,
until their outline against the glimmer of the polished panelling
assumed the outline of Rockarvon valley on his map. Then he had climbed
from his lower berth, lighted his travelling lamp and taken from its
pocket in his dressing-case the map itself, the map of Morvane and its
lands. The wry, white strip shone challenging in the uncertain light.
“So nearly!” he thought bitterly. So nearly won and now so wholly
lost! Blowing out his lamp and still clutching the stiff linen of the
map, he had fallen back upon his pillow once again, to marshal in the
swaying darkness of the sleeping-car the happenings of the afternoon.
It might have been his by now, that wry, white strip! At this moment,
had he but said the word, the writ of Morvane’s master might, in fair
anticipation, have run from Sawley to the uplands above Clanworth. He
cursed the fate that had offered, so cruelly conditioned, what most
in life he craved. The chance had come, had been perforce neglected,
had gone for ever. It would not, could not come again. Between him and
Rockarvon the gulf might never more be bridged; further, once this
Rockarvon died, the new one, being a decent fellow, would treasure what
was in effect his birthright. Indeed, he had almost said as much, when
he had spoken of his morning ride from Morvane to Rockarvon (telling,
of course, no word of his companion) and had impressed his host with
the fond loyalty that, for all its desolate eeriness, he felt toward
the cradle of his name.
But suppose it were never even his to cherish? Suppose that sinister
horror in the Rue des Montagnards found another, more complacent
pander to his lustfulness, gave to Rockarvon valley a master neither
Clavering nor Plethern? The possibility set Charles writhing on his
bed. It was the moment of his bitterest anguish, the moment when
almost he regretted his rejection of the earl’s proposal. He had been
too hasty; a little parley might have discovered ways and means;
the creature could not live for long; the girl would soon have been
free again. Free again? Yes, but at what a price to her? Imagination
hinted at the man’s way with a helpless maid. Instantly all that in
Charles was upright, all that was in him of indignant decency, rose
and overwhelmed his selfishness. His anger blazed afresh. Once more he
steeled himself to honour the trust that now was his--Marvell’s trust,
the trust of the beautiful child that looked to him for livelihood and
happiness and safety.
In the warm embrace of his renewed resolve for good he fell asleep,
waking to the journey of the following day with a protective fondness
for Viola that endured against her frivolity and her petulance, that
held him during the early days of their stay in Rome. At first,
supported by this fondness for his ward, he enjoyed the new rôle of
watchful parent. He chose her amusements and her company, bought her
the books that explained the monuments and ruins of the city’s past,
went with her everywhere, tenderly and with the delicacy of paternal
love softened her crudities, pointed the way to that quiet dignity of
habit which, as the heritage of well-born English beauty, must now be
hers.
She was responsive and a ready learner. Probably the genuine affection
of her guardian during these days of mutual discovery first pierced
the thin crust of her conceit; then, when the proud ruins of a mighty
history became gradually familiar, when she had read something of the
centuries of grandeur that lay behind the swarming noisy streets she
traversed daily, the insignificance of modern days, the insignificance
of her British race, the insignificance of her individual, lovely
self, possessed her mind, broke her conceit to fragments, and left
her to justify in her own eyes her own so negligible existence. With
all humility she turned to the man who, in effect, had revealed her to
herself. They became intimate with something beyond the intimacy of
social friendship.
At last, touched by her sweetness, he acceded to her request for
details of the quarrel with Rockarvon. He told her frankly of his plans
for Morvane, showed her the map, laid his lean finger on the wry, white
patch of the Rockarvon valley. Finally he explained the earl’s proposal.
“He offered me that,” he said, “in exchange for you.”
“But, Charles,” she asked, “I would have done more than that for you!
Why did you say nothing? How ever am I to pay back what I owe you? Here
was a chance. Oh, Charles, didn’t you trust me enough to do that for
you?”
He shook his head.
“It was not a question of trusting you, child. I shall have to give you
some idea of the kind of man he is.”
He did so, speaking slowly and carefully, wishful to convince yet
fearful of brushing the freshness from her innocence. Her colour
deepened a little as she listened. At last he said:
“You see, my dear, it was really not an offer; it was an insult, and I
told him so. Hence the row.”
She got up and kissed him.
“Dear Charles.... How good you are to me! He sounds----” she shuddered.
After a pause: “But I’d do it for you, Charles--at least, I hope I’d
have the pluck....”
He interrupted her, a little harshly.
“Don’t talk like that! If I can prevent it, you shall never hear his
name again. I deserve flogging for taking you inside his vile house.”
Then, in a lighter tone, “Now promise me this. Never tell a soul what
I have told you about my land-greed. I suppose I am a little ashamed
of it; also no one knows, and it’s fun caring awfully for something and
no one knowing that you care. The rest of the story is more your secret
than mine, but the first part--including this map--keep to yourself.
Promise me, like a good girl.”
She promised.
Oddly enough, the very telling to Viola of the events in the Rue des
Montagnards robbed them, for Charles Plethern, of some of their power
to give savour to a guardian’s duties. Now that she knew what had
happened, it was as though the incident had become part of the distant
past. Charles felt that Rockarvon and his insolence had vanished
with all chance of the accretion to Morvane of the wooded valley.
Instinctively he looked elsewhere for some interest that should take
the place of this now vain ambition. Such an interest the chaperonage
of Viola in Rome failed to supply. By hazard he encountered a lady
whom ten years ago he had known well and fervently. She greeted him
with meaning enthusiasm. Viola was with him, and, wishful to evade a
difficult equating of past and present, he took hurried leave. But
a day or two later, when his ward with friends was lunching at a
villa some miles outside the city, he responded to the lady’s written
suggestion of another meeting. They spoke of old times and, although
neither was at all inclined to more than reminiscent dalliance, the
memory of the period when sweet, transitory loves alternated with
sport and journeys of adventure to take him to the fair and to the
rugged places of the world, lodged firmly in his mind again. The days
dragged by and life began to weary him. Parties and dinners, drives
and sight-seeing, the splendour of ecclesiastical pomps, the polite
elegance of the cosmopolitan world of Rome, could not for long taste
freshly to a palate reared on food more appetizing, more astringent.
Or so he told himself. In truth he had begun to feel restless out of
the company of Viola, even to resent those of her occupations that
were not his as well. A life with Viola and yet without her; friendship
in which the girl was but a friend more frequent than the rest, left
him each day conscious of discontent. But he mistook his restlessness
for longing for the past. Blindly he clung to self-deception, blaming
the very chains that bound him for the discomfort of their absence. He
looked forward drearily to the return to England, to the Riviera, to a
London season, to a summer voyage to Norway, to whatever distractions
the coming year might offer. They must all be mere repetition of this
Roman flatness, unadventurous, trivial, a monotony of smartness and
publicity.
One night he took a party to a theatre of burlesque. Viola, mentioning
the performance to Daniel over lunch, spoke of a comic opera; but she
may be forgiven her faulty phrasing, seeing how greatly the performance
was for her overshadowed by the queer mischance that followed it.
Charles was a little conscious of bravado, in choosing for his ward
so crude an entertainment. He thought to find in its unsuitability a
small refreshment of his weariness. But when the evening had crashed
and blazed some thirty minutes on its shameless way, he read discomfort
in her indifferent eyes and wished himself and her elsewhere. Their
companions, accustomed to such body-shows and more at home with quick,
Italian slang, laughed pleasurably to hear the well-known Neapolitan
comedian at his quips, applauded the tableaux of undress. Such
insensitive gaiety was infectious and Charles found himself, as time
went by, able to forget the puzzled silence of his Viola, to share the
other’s easy joy in lascivious Latinity. When they were back at their
hotel, he felt wakeful and ready for supper and night-dissipation.
“Shall we go and dance somewhere?”
She shook her head sleepily.
“Not for me. I’ve got a headache with all that noise. You go. I’m for
bed.”
He wandered down the street to cool his fevered brain. Across the glare
of footlights the past had called to him. A year ago he would not have
stood thus aimless in a Roman street. It chafed him that now, though
free for baccarat or dancing or champagne and laughter in careless,
painted company, he was in spiritual thrall. She had bidden him go
and seek amusement; he was as much his own master as a year ago; he
knew the clubs, the cabarets, the restaurants. And yet he could not
go. The thought of her obtruded every instant of his listless stroll.
Stubborn in self-delusion, he forced his mind to the gay freedom of his
independent days. He lost himself in memory, living again the thrill
of old excitements, living again the old rapture of illicit solitudes.
Almost unconscious of his movements he walked and turned and came back
to the hotel. For ten minutes he lingered in a chair among the palms,
then, still dreaming, mounted the stairs slowly to the upper floor.
* * * * *
Viola, when a while earlier she left her guardian near the porter’s
box, dragged wearily to bed. The first-floor corridor stretched
emptily before her, long rows of doors on either side. The Plethern
suite was at the far end on the left. She passed the closed door of
her guardian’s room; she passed the bathroom door. Her room was next
and beyond that--a corner room with double view;--the sitting-room.
She undressed carelessly, strewing her clothes about the floor. Five
minutes later, full length in a hot bath, she felt the uneasy fatigue
of the loud, brutal theatre sinking to quiet sleepiness. She wondered
what Charles was doing; idly pictured him one of a group of men in a
club smoking-room. Or was he dancing somewhere? Perhaps he was dancing
with some such woman as those who, not an hour ago, she had seen
stripped for public exhibition. How could men be at once such darlings
and such beasts? Huddling a towel about her, she padded to her bedroom.
She had the whim to see herself as, in the theatre, girls were seen by
thousand after thousand strangers. Perhaps the sight would help her
to understand. The towel slipped to the floor; at the tall glass she
stood appraisingly. With a slight click the handle turned and the door
leading to the corridor was opened. Startled, she wheeled toward the
noise and saw Charles Plethern watching her. His face, for a fraction
of time, narrowed hungrily; his eyes, for a fraction of time, devoured
her nakedness. Then, as with a gasp she snatched at covering, he was
himself again and, his cheeks aflush with a confused dismay, murmured a
quick apology. The door closed once more.
Bundled in dressing-gown and bed clothes she crouched and trembled in
a chair. The shock had left her limp and, save for her burning head,
as cold as ice. That hungry face! Those hot, devouring eyes! She hid
her flaming cheeks in friendly folds of eiderdown. “Not that!” she
whispered piteously. “Oh Charles, not that!”
* * * * *
Over breakfast he made his poor amends.
“I can only beg your pardon, Viola. I was dreaming and confused the
doors.”
Prepared for reference to an incident that, in the perspective of
overnight, was merely an unpleasant hazard, she met the apology with
control and barely flushed as she said hurriedly:
“It’s all right. I should lock my door.”
* * * * *
Inevitably the blunder of his reverie set Charles once more on the
straight road of guardianship. Interpretation of his secret mind was
as remote as ever. He blamed the longings that had so disastrously
obsessed him for the shame his ward had suffered. Next, he blamed Rome
for inciting the obsession.
“Let us go home,” he said.
At the beginning of March they were back in London. Not once had the
man thought to wonder why the consequence of an ordinary mischance
should so afflict him; why to have put shame on Viola should in extreme
degree also have shamed himself.