"My dear," said Lady Garnett, accepting a cup of tea from the hands
of her niece, and regarding her at the same time, from her low
cushioned chair, with a certain drollery, "do you know that it is
exactly one week since Mr. Sylvester called?"
Mary Masters' head was bent a little over her long _Suède_
gloves--they had just returned from their afternoon drive in the
Park--and she paused to remove her hat and veil before she replied.
"And it is at least three weeks since Mr. Rainham was here."
"Ah, poor Philip!" remarked the old lady, "he is always irregular;
he may come, or he may not. I must ask him to dinner, by the way,
soon. But I was talking of Mr. Sylvester, who is a model of
punctuality. (Give me a piece of _baba_ for Mefistofèle, please!) Mr.
Sylvester was here last Saturday, and the Saturday before that. I
think it is highly probable, Mary, that we shall be honoured with a
visit from Mr. Sylvester to-day."
"I hope not!" said the girl with some energy. "I have a couple of
songs that I must positively try over before to-night. Surely, it is
a little late too, even for Mr. Sylvester."
"It is barely half-past five," said Lady Garnett, lazily feeding her
pug, "and he knows that we do not dine till eight. Resign yourself,
_chèrie_; he will certainly come."
She glanced across at the young girl, pointing, with her keen gaze,
words which seemed trivial enough. And Mary, her calm forehead
puckered with a certain vague annoyance which she disdained to
analyse, understood perfectly all that the elder lady was too
discreet to say. She sat for a little while, her hands resting idly
in her lap, or smoothing the creases out of her long, soft gloves.
Then she rose and moved quickly across to Lady Garnett's side, knelt
suddenly down by her chair.
"Ah, my aunt!" she cried impulsively, "tell me what is to be done?"
Lady Garnett glanced up from the novel into which she had subsided;
she laid it on the little tea-table with a sigh of relief at this
sudden mood of confidence, coming a little strangely amidst the
young girl's habitual reticence.
"We will talk, my dear," she said, "now you are practical. I
suppose, by the way, he has not proposed?"
Mary shook her head.
"That is it, Aunt Marcelle! That is exactly what I want to prevent.
Is--is he going to?"
Lady Garnett smiled, and her smile had a very definite quality
indeed.
"I would not cherish any false hopes, my dear. Charles Sylvester is
a young man--not so very young though, by the way--whose conclusions
are very slow, but when they arrive, _mon Dieu_! they are durable. I
am sure he is terribly tenacious. It took him a long time to
conclude that he was in love with you; at first, you know, he was a
little troubled about your fortune, but at last he came to that
conclusion--at Lucerne."
"Oh, at Lucerne!" protested the young girl with a nervous laugh.
"Surely not there!"
"It was precisely at Lucerne," continued Lady Garnett, "that he
decided you would make him an adorable wife, and, in effect, it was
a considerable piece of wisdom. And since then his conclusions have
been more rapid. The last has been that he will certainly marry
you--with or without a _dot_--before the elections. You are serious,
you know, my dear, though not so serious as he believes; you are a
girl of intelligence, and he is going to stand for some place or
other, and candidates with clever wives often obtain a majority over
candidates who are clever but have no wives. Yes, my dear, he is
certainly going to propose. You may postpone it by the use of great
tact for a month or so; you will hardly do so for longer."
"I don't want to postpone it," said Mary ruefully; "if it be
inevitable, I would sooner have it over."
"It will never be over," remarked Lady Garnett decisively. "Did I
not say that he was tenacious--_comme on ne l'est plus_? You may
refuse him once--twice; it will all be to go over again and again,
until you end by accepting him."
"Oh, Aunt Marcelle!" protested the young girl, with little flush of
righteous wrath.
"After all," continued the elder lady, ignoring her interruption,
"are you so very sure that--that it would not do? There are many
worse men in the world than Sylvester. Both _my_ husbands were
profligates, in addition to being fools. At any rate, this dear
Charles is very correct. And remember, the poor man is really in
love with you."
"I know," said Mary plaintively; "that is why I am so sorry. He is a
good man, a conscientious man, and a gentleman; and really,
sometimes lately, he has been quite simple and nice. Only----"
Lady Garnett completed the sentence for her with an impartial shrug.
"Only he is perfectly ridiculous, and as a lover quite impossible?
My dear, I grant it you with all my heart, and I think he has all
the qualities which make an excellent husband."
As the young girl was still silent, unconvinced, she went on after a
little while:
"You know, Mary, I have never tried to marry you. Frankly, my dear,
I do not believe very much in pushing marriages. My own, and most
others that I have known intimately, might have been very reasonably
made--let us say--in purgatory. But a girl must marry some time or
other, if she be rich. And you will have plenty of money, my poor
child! You shall do exactly as you please, but I must admit that
Charles is a most unobjectionable _parti_. After all, there is only
one other man I would sooner give you to, Mary, and he is
impossible."
"Aunt Marcelle! Aunt Marcelle!" pleaded the young girl faintly, her
dark head bent very low now over the arm of the chair.
Lady Garnett had been talking so far in a somewhat desultory
fashion, interspersing her words with brief caresses to the pug who
was curled up in her lap. Now she put down the little dog with a
brusqueness which hurt his dignity; he pawed fretfully at Mary's
dress, and, attracting no attention, trotted of to his basket on the
rug, where he settled himself with a short growl of discontent. And
Lady Garnett, with a sudden change of tone and a new tenderness in
her voice, just stooped a little and touched the young girl's
forehead with her thin lips.
"My poor child!" she said, "my dear little Mary! Did you suppose I
didn't know? Did you think I was blind, as well as very old, that I
shouldn't see the change in you, and guess why?"
"Ah!" cried the girl with a break in her voice. "What are you
saying? What do you make me say?"
"Nothing! nothing!" said the old lady; "you need not tell me
anything. It is only I who tell you--like the old immortal in
Daudet, _J'ai vu ça moi_!--and it will pass as everything passes. That
is not the least sad part, though now you will hardly believe it.
You see, I don't lie to you; I tell you quite plainly that it is no
good. Some men are made so--_vois tu, ma chèrie_!--to see only one
woman, an inaccessible one, when they seem to see many, and _he_ would
be like that. Only it is a pity. And yet who would have foreseen
it--that he should charm you, Mary? He so tired and old and _usé_--for
he is old for you, dear, though he might be my son--with his
humorous, indolent, mocking talk, and his great, sad eyes. It's
wicked of me, Mary, but I love you for it; so few girls would have
cared, for he _is_ a wretched match. And I blame myself, too."
"Because I am foolish and utterly ashamed?" cried the girl from her
obscurity, in a hard, small voice which the other did not know.
"Foolish!" she exclaimed. "Well, we women are all that, and some
men--the best of them. But ashamed? Because you have a wise mother,
my darling, who guesses things? I have never had any children but
you and him. And no one but I can ever know. No; I was sorry because
I had to hurt you. But it was best, my dear, because you are so
strong. Yes, you are strong, Mary!"
"Am I?" said the girl wearily. "What is the good of it, I wonder?
Except that it makes one suffer more and longer."
"No," said Lady Garnett. "It makes one show it less, and only that
matters. Aren't we going to Lady Dulminster to-night? Ah, my dear,
the play must go on; we mustn't spoil the fun with sour faces,
masks, and dominos except now and then! Believe me, _chèrie_,
underneath it all we are much the same--very sad people. Only it
wouldn't do to admit it. Life would be too terrible then. So we
dance on and make believe we enjoy it, and by-and-by, if we play
hard enough, we do believe it for a minute or two. From one point of
view, you know, it is rather amusing."
Mary looked up at last; her eyes, shining out of the white face,
seemed to have grown suddenly very large and bright.
"Does it go on always, Aunt Marcelle?" she asked with a child's
directness.
"Always!" said Lady Garnett promptly. "Only there are interludes,
and then sometimes one guest steals away with his bosom friend into
a corner, and they look under each other's masks. But it isn't a
nice sight, and it mustn't happen very often, else they wouldn't be
back in their places when the music began. Ah, my child!" she broke
off suddenly, "I am talking nonsense to amuse you, and making you
sadder all the time. But you know I think nobody was ever consoled
by consolations unless it were the consoler."
She drew the girl's blank face towards her, clasped the smooth brown
head against her breast with two bird-like hands on which the
diamonds glittered.
"Cry, my dear!" she said at last; "that is the best of being
young--that gift of tears. When one is old one laughs instead; but
ah, _mon Dieu_! it is a queer kind of laughter."
They sat locked together in silence until the room was quite dark,
lit only by the vague lamplight which shone in through the fine lace
curtains from the street. Then Mary rose and played a little, very
softly, in the darkness, morsels of Chopin, until the footman came
in with a bright lamp, announcing that dinner was on the table. And
Charles Sylvester had not arrived.
He atoned for this breach of his habit, however, on the morrow by
making an early call upon the two ladies, whom he found alone,
immediately after luncheon. He was very clean shaven, very carefully
dressed, and with his closely buttoned frock-coat and his
irreproachable hat, which he held ponderously in his hand during his
protracted visit, he had the air of having come immediately from
church.
Lady Garnett taxed him with this occupation presently, suppressing
her further thought that he looked still more like an aspirant to
matrimony, and Charles admitted the impeachment; he had been in the
morning with his sister, Mrs. Lightmark, to the Temple Church. His
severe gaze was turned inquiringly upon Mary. Lady Garnett responded
for her a little flippantly.
"Oh, Mary went nowhere this morning, Mr. Sylvester--not even to the
church parade. We were very late last night, at Lady Dulminster's.
London grows later and later; we shall be dining at midnight soon."
"I should like to go to the Temple Church sometimes," said Mary,
"because of the singing, only it is so very far."
Charles Sylvester bent forward with bland satisfaction; he had it so
obviously on the tip of his tongue that he would be charmed to be
her escort, that the girl hastened to interrupt him.
"You were not at Lady Dulminster's, Mr. Sylvester? We quite expected
to see you."
"If I had known that you were to be there!" he exclaimed. Then he
added: "I had a card, and, indeed, I fully intended to look in. But
one is always so pressed for time just before the long vacation, and
yesterday I was quite exhausted. Did you see any of my people?"
"Yes," said Mary, "Eve was there; we expected her to play. It is a
very musical house."
"Ah, yes! I have heard so from my sister, and from Colonel
Lightmark. He says that Lady Dulminster is really a most
accomplished woman."
"He looks as if he found her charming," put in Lady Garnett with a
shrug. Then she added, suppressing a yawn, her thin fingers dallying
regretfully with the leaves of her novel: "I suppose your exertions
are nearly over, Mr. Sylvester. You will be going away soon?"
He shook his head gravely.
"I fear not for long. I may have a week's cruise with my
brother-in-law--you know, he has a yacht for the summer--but my
labours are only beginning. I have the elections in view. You agree
with me, no doubt, Lady Garnett, that the Government is bound to go
to the country in the autumn; you know, of course, that I am
thinking of standing for----"
"I congratulate you in advance, Mr. Sylvester! I am sure you will
get in, especially if you have your sister down to canvass."
"I am afraid Eve is not sufficiently interested in politics to be of
much assistance," said the candidate. Then he went on, a little
nervously, pulling at his collar: "You will wish me success, Miss
Masters?"
"Oh, yes!" said the girl hastily; "I am sure we both wish you that,
Mr. Sylvester. We shall be most interested, shall we not, Aunt
Marcelle?"
Lady Garnett came to her assistance with smiling promptitude.
"Of course, Mr. Sylvester; we will even wear your colours, if they
are becoming, you know; and I am sure you would not fight under any
others. And, mind, we will have no reforms--unless you like to try
your hand on the climate. But nothing else! You are so fond of
reforming, you English--even the most Conservative of you--that I
live in constant fear of being reformed away. I hope, Mr. Sylvester,
you are more Conservative than that."
Charles Sylvester flushed a little; he cleared his throat
elaborately before he replied:
"I fear I have failed to make myself understood, Lady Garnett; in no
sense do I call myself a Conservative, though I am prepared to vote
with the party on the Irish Question. I am a Liberal Unionist, Lady
Garnett. I may almost call myself a Radical Unionist. My views on
the emancipation of labour, for instance, are quite advanced. I am
prepared----"
Mary interrupted him, absently, demurely, with a little speech that
appeared to be a quotation.
"Labour is a pretty beast in its cage to the philanthropic visitor
with buns; its temper is better understood of the professional
keeper."
Lady Garnett arched her eyebrows pensively; Charles looked
surprised, displeased; Mary hastened to explain, blushing a little:
"I beg your pardon! the phrase is Mr. Rainham's. I believe it is the
only political principle he has."
Charles's displeasure at the maxim cooled to lofty disdain of its
author.
"Ah, yes!--pretty, but cynical, as I should say most of Mr.
Rainham's principles were."
Lady Garnett was aroused out of her state of vacant boredom for the
first time into a certain interest. Mary sat, her hands clasped in
her lap, the flush just dying away out of her pale cheeks, while Mr.
Sylvester embarked upon an elaborate disquisition of his principles
and his programme--it might have been an expansion of his
Parliamentary address--which the elder lady, whom a chance phrase
had started upon a new line of thought, scarcely considered.
Does he know? she asked herself. Has this rather stupid young man
grown suddenly acute enough to be jealous? Certainly there had been
a flash, a trace of curious rancour in his brief mention of
Rainham's name, for which it was scarcely easy to account. That the
two men, in spite of their long juxtaposition, had never been more
than acquaintances, had never been in the least degree friends, she
was perfectly well aware; it was not in the nature of either of them
to be more intimately allied.
Rainham's indolent humour and fantastic melancholy, his genial
disregard of popularity or success, could not but be displeasing to
a man so precise and practical as the barrister. Only now she had
scented, had dimly perceived beneath his speech, something more than
the indefinable aversion of incompatible tempers, a very personal
and present dislike. Had things passed between them, things of which
she was ignorant? Was the sentiment, then, reciprocal? She hardly
believed it: Rainham's placid temper gave to his largest hostilities
the character merely of languid contempt; it was not worth the
trouble to hate anyone, he had said to her so often--neither to hate
nor to love. She could imagine him with infidelities on occasion to
the last part of his rule; yes, she could imagine that--but for
hatred, no! he had said rightly he was too indolent for that. It
must be all on one side, then, as happens so frequently in life with
love and hate, and the rest--all on one side. And the barrister had
risen to take his leave before her reflections had brought her
further than this.