Up at the house no one knew anything of the wonderful news, for Mr.
Bracknel did not telephone to his wife, nor did he come home to announce
it to her. Rusk, coming out on to the lawn, found Denis playing a game
of croquet with his sisters. As both May and Amy were much more
brilliant players than their brother, when the tutor proposed that he
should join them the match promised to become a fairer one. May, who had
been playing the other two, naturally took him for her partner, but when
she declared that they must start all over again Amy demurred. She
evidently was not enchanted with the prospect of having Denis for a
whole game, and appeared to think Rusk had waited to make sure that it
was May who was playing single-handed before he had offered to join in.
She could make no objection, however, because at present she had adopted
a policy of treating Rusk with polite and exaggerated coldness;
nevertheless the game began inauspiciously. In her second shot Amy took
all the hoops she wanted to take, but when she turned round it was to
discover Rusk and May apparently too absorbed in conversation to notice
that she had finished her break. She would not have interrupted them for
the world, and in sombre silence marched over to a bench at the other
side of the green.
Presently May looked up. “Oh, you’ve finished!” She glanced round to see
what Amy had done. “We’re red and yellow, aren’t we?” she asked. “It’s
your shot, Mr. Rusk. Just try for the blue.”
Rusk tried, and succeeded in making a happy cannon off the post. “Oh,
good!” May encouraged him. “Now we must be very careful. What hoop is
Denis for, Amy?”
“You can see the clips, can’t you? I suppose you’re not blind!”
Croquet is a pastime in which a vast amount of advice may be requested
and given, and as Rusk and May discussed each of the former’s shots for
about five minutes beforehand, and then promptly became totally
oblivious to the game, Amy began to get more and more annoyed. She grew
sulky and indifferent, and no longer helped Denis to go through his
hoops. Several times the boy was obliged to shout to their opponents
from the other side of the green that it was their turn: Amy would have
waited in freezing wrath for a quarter of an hour rather than do so. At
last, when May had played the wrong ball twice in succession, her
patience gave way, and she flung down her mallet and stalked off to the
house. Rusk and May did not even notice that she was gone till they saw
Denis alone, and apparently wrapped in slumber, stretched full length on
a bench. May glanced round quickly.
“Where is Amy?” she called out.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone! Where has she gone to? Has she stopped playing?”
“I should rather think so.” And Denis closed his eyes expressively.
“But what’s the matter?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s in a wax with me, I suppose.”
“With you! Why what have you done?”
“You’d better ask her. Somebody always gets like that over croquet, any
way. It’s the most interesting thing in the game--trying to pick out who
it will be.” He happened to glance at Rusk. “She’s angry with me,
because I missed the same hoop three times. She says I spoil
everything.”
May sat down beside him. “Well, what shall we do now?” She tapped the
toe of her shoe with her mallet, and looked up at her partner.
“I’ll play against you and Mr. Rusk, if you like,” her brother
suggested. “But you’ll have to give me lots of bisques--twelve.” And he
went over to take his shot.
The game now proceeded more pleasantly, till by and by Mrs. Bracknel
made her appearance.
“Where is Amy?” she asked as she settled herself. “Run and tell her tea
is ready, dear,” she added to Denis. “It is just being brought out now.
I thought it would be nicer to have it in the garden.”
Denis went off, but returned without his sister. “She’s going to have
tea in her own room,” he announced. “She’s got a headache.”
“Got a headache?” his mother questioned anxiously. “Why I thought I saw
her out here only a few minutes ago. It must be the hot sun. I am sure
it would be better to wait till the evening to play your games....
Dear, do take your hands out of your pockets. It makes you look so--so I
don’t know what. And give Mr. Rusk his tea. Where are your manners? You
never see Mr. Rusk lounging about like that, I’m sure.”
Denis did as he was told. “Manners make the man,” he agreed. “Mr. Rusk,
please accept this cup of tea, and select some grub.” Then he sat down
on the grass at his mother’s feet.
“I wonder what is the matter with her?” Mrs. Bracknel went on anxiously.
“I’m afraid she can’t be well. I wish she would see a doctor. Don’t you
think she is looking very white?”
“Amy never had much colour,” May replied indifferently.
“She had a better colour than she has now. She isn’t looking at all
well.”
“Why doesn’t she go away for a bit?” Denis suggested.
“I wish she would. I have been trying to persuade her to. I want her to
go to her Aunt Lizzie, who, I’m sure, would be delighted to have her.
But she says she hates going away, and that she is much better here. And
she’s so headstrong there’s no getting her to do anything she doesn’t
want to do. I shall speak to her again.... Denis, dear, wouldn’t you be
better with a hat? You shouldn’t sit in the sun like that; you’ll get a
sunstroke.”
“Do you say you have spoken to her already?” May asked.
“I spoke to her this morning; but she’s getting so irritable that----”
“I shouldn’t advise you to say anything more about it then. If you do,
she’ll think we all want to get rid of her. You know what she’s like.”
Mrs. Bracknel’s gentle eyes opened wider. “As if she could possibly
think such a thing!”
“It’s exactly the sort of thing she _would_ think, or say, at any rate.”
“But why should we want to get rid of her?”
“Oh, we don’t, of course,” said May, a little impatiently. “I’m only
telling you what she’ll think. You know yourself the extraordinary
notions she gets hold of.”
“We might all go away, for that matter,” her mother murmured, “only your
father doesn’t like the idea. It seems to him to be a waste of the
garden.”
“He’s quite right,” Rusk interposed. “The garden couldn’t be nicer than
it is at present.”
“Oh, for my part, I’m perfectly content to be here,” Mrs. Bracknel
replied hastily. “It’s only that a change might do the children good.”
“But Amy and I were away all the spring,” said May, to whom this
unexpected inclusion of herself in the plan was by no means agreeable.
“I don’t in the least want to go away again. Amy can go if she
likes--she gets on much better with Aunt Lizzie than I do.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t wish to make any of you go against your will,”
said Mrs. Bracknel, plaintively. “Only you never _used_ to be so averse
to leaving home.”
“Don’t you think we had better finish the game, or something?” said
Denis, coming to the rescue. “It’s Mr. Rusk’s shot with yellow.”
Rusk took up his mallet and strolled across the green. May bent forward
at the same time and kissed her brother. Neither Rusk nor Mrs. Bracknel
saw her, and Denis made no sign. He stood there, smiling a little,
beside, and slightly behind, his mother, his hands once more in his
pockets.
“I knew you would do that,” he cried gaily, as Rusk, failing to get his
hoop, left everything in beautiful position for the next player. “It was
rather nice of you, all the same. As papa says, it is so difficult to
trust people nowadays!”
Rusk returned to the bench where the two ladies were sitting, and Mrs.
Bracknel smiled upon him. “You are so good to Denis, Mr. Rusk!” she
murmured. “He is looking so much better since you came!”
“I’m afraid we all impose upon Mr. Rusk’s good-nature,” said May, as the
young man murmured something inaudible. “We never give him a moment’s
peace.” She moved away toward a corner of the ground where Denis had
just knocked her ball, and Mrs. Bracknel went on:
“Don’t you think yourself he is really better, Mr. Rusk? I was beginning
to be a little anxious about him. I wonder if it is only that he is
happier with you. I know he _is_ happier, very much happier, of course,
but don’t you think there is something more than that? Don’t you think
he is really better, physically, too?”
“Oh, I’m sure he is,” said Rusk, hopefully. “I think he is a good deal
better.”
Mrs. Bracknel’s dark eyes rested upon him in gentle confidence. “I am
very fond of Denis, Mr. Rusk,” she said softly.
Rusk smiled. “I am sure you are,” he answered. Then, after a slight
pause: “I am, too. He’s a ripping little chap.”
Mrs. Bracknel was silent a moment. “I cannot tell you how grateful I
feel to you for all your kindness to him.”
“Oh, the kindness is all on his side,” laughed Rusk, rather awkwardly.
“I mean, for not exposing me. He’s about ten times cleverer than I am,
you know.”
Mrs. Bracknel looked at him in mild surprise, as if doubtful whether to
take this as a personal confession or not. In the end she decided to see
it in a humorous light, and smiled a little.
It always embarrassed Rusk to be thanked for anything. He would much
have preferred, so far as he himself was concerned, that people should
take things for granted. The next moment, however, Denis came up and
saved him any further expression of gratitude. The boy sat down on the
bench beside them. He took up a book his mother had brought out from the
house with her, and began to turn the leaves.
“Miss Birch sent me that a day or two ago,” Mrs. Bracknel murmured. “I
can’t say I find it very interesting. It is by James. I remember reading
some of his books when I was a girl, but this is not so good. The others
were more historical. Perhaps you have read it, Mr. Rusk?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. What is it called?” asked Rusk, whose thoughts
had been wandering.
“It is called--oh, I never can remember names.” She took the volume from
her son and consulted the title-page--“‘Princess Casamassima.’”
“No; I don’t think I have read it.”
“There is such a strange person in it--a Madame something or other----”
She turned the leaves. “Madame Grandoni. A most peculiar character, and
not at all natural. She says that she is a hundred and twenty. It seems
so odd, for she appears to be quite active and intelligent.”
“A hundred and twenty!” Rusk repeated in astonishment.
“Yes. Here is the place. And she says it again somewhere else, I think.”
Rusk took the book and read a few lines. “Ah, yes.... I fancy she is
speaking figuratively, don’t you think?” he remarked after a short
pause.
“I suppose she must be,” Mrs. Bracknel answered gently, “but isn’t it
peculiar to make anyone talk like that? I mean, so few people--even
quite elderly people--want to make themselves out older than they really
are.”
“Very few indeed,” Rusk agreed. Then, seeing that Mrs. Bracknel had
found her place, he decided that it was an excellent opportunity to go
and look at the roses with May.