Let me, neither in adversity, nor in the joys of prosperity, be
associated with women.--_Aeschylus_.
After searching diligently Flora discovered a little farm-house some
three miles to the west of Kingsmore, which the tenants were glad to
let at a weekly rental, sufficient to give them a long awaited
opportunity of visiting relations elsewhere. On a set day Maude
presented herself with a cartload of baggage; and after spending a
night beneath Mr. Price’s roof, and horrifying that simple old
gentleman exceedingly, went on with her friend in the morning to the
retreat on the side of the hill, with which she was graciously pleased
to declare herself “pretty well satisfied on the whole.” During the
week that ensued she was occupied, putting the place into her idea of
order, and endeavouring to regain the prettiness which she believed
London had taken from her by driving abroad in a donkey cart. But
before the first week had elapsed she had begun to complain,
ungrateful person that she was, of the monotony of country life.
The empty-headed little woman would have been horrified had anyone
dared to suggest that she was not a perfectly righteous person. What
harm, she would have argued indignantly, had she done in the world? It
was true she had married Mr. Juxon for the sake of his money, but then
she did not believe people ever married for love. It was certainly too
comical to suppose that any woman could possibly fall in love with
Herbert, who was short and bald-headed. She had been true to him, she
considered, and constancy was all that could reasonably be required
from her. It was his duty to go on making money, and when he remained
in the city until dark, as he had been doing lately, she did not
inquire the cause. She had certainly been surprised when he raised no
objection to her proposed jaunt; but it never entered her head to
imagine that his affairs might not be going any too prosperously. She
would have been vastly astounded could she have heard the remark which
he made when he watched her train depart. He had given a sigh of
relief, and said, “It will be better for her not to know.”
“I have nothing but trouble, my dear,” said the ungrateful person, who
had been a penniless little nobody before the stockbroker married her,
to Flora, as they sat together on a tiny lawn under a dwarfed tree in
front of the bijou residence. “I have lately suspected that Herbert
drinks. Men who stay late in the city, as he has been doing, cannot be
at work, because as everyone knows there is no work done after four
o’clock. They meet together in some horrid low place, drink brandy and
swear, and make bets on horse-races.”
Flora trailed her handkerchief along the grass for the delectation of
a fat kitten, and made no reply.
“It is disgusting,” went on the little lady. “Drunkenness is so vulgar
and costermongery. I had a letter this morning,” she added in
aggrieved tones. “He wants to come here from Saturday to Monday, and I
have written to say that I have not got the house in order yet, and he
is not to come. I am here for privacy,” she concluded pathetically.
“Pretty people must not expect to have privacy. Especially when they
have husbands,” said Flora.
Maude Juxon laughed delightedly. Flora could say what she liked, so
long as she wrapped the sting of her truth in a sheath of flattery.
The kitten jumped across the lawn sideways, its tail like a
lamp-brush, flung a mad somersault, and dashed into a briar-bush,
bringing down a shower of petals.
“When are you going to take me to that remarkable house in Thorlund?”
asked the beauty.
Flora turned grave at once, and answered shortly, “Never.”
“That’s jealousy,” murmured Mrs. Juxon. “I want to see the house.”
“You can tell that to Mr. Conway. He is coming to Kingsmore on
Thursday, that is if he can remember the engagement,” said Flora. “I
am not going with you to that house.”
“Is that clever delightful poet coming too?” cried Maude, sincerely
interested at last. “That nice, handsome, doctor clergyman?”
“He never goes into society,” said Flora. “I suppose he’s afraid of
meeting fascinating little women like you. Do you really think him
handsome?”
“Oh yes, superb. His head is like one of those pictures you see,
somewhere or other. And that beautiful silvered hair, and smooth grave
face, and great grey eyes--why, Flora, there isn’t an actor in London
half as handsome. I’m sure he looks a saint.”
“He neglects his parish fearfully,” said the girl.
“Well, you can’t expect him to take any interest in those stupid
labouring people,” said Maude with some asperity. “I shall intercept
him in one of his walks, and tell him he’s to come to Kingsmore on
Thursday. Now do say something, and don’t leave all the talking to
me,” she went on fretfully. “You have become such a silent person
lately. Tell me all about Mr. Conway. Does he like you? Has he money?
Do you think we could persuade him to give a dance in his wonderful
house?”
Flora was troubled. She had been given reason to suppose that Conway
did “like her,” when at a distance from the Strath. She supposed him
to be fairly well off; he gave the idea of a man who had never done a
day’s work in his life. As for a dance at the Strath, she found
herself smiling at the suggestion, then began to wonder why the idea
should appear incongruous.
Neither she nor her uncle could recall what had taken place during
their visit to the Strath. When upon the road they had discovered
themselves costumed after the fashion of a by-gone day; but memory had
given them no answer when they asked why those old habits were upon
them, or what had been their actions inside the house. Soberly and
silently they had returned to reassume their modern garments, and Mr.
Price had since avoided any reference to that afternoon.
The same with Conway, Drayton, and, in a lesser degree, with Dr.
Berry. Inside the Strath they were puppets; outside they
resumed--although there were exceptions to this rule--their normal
selves. The time spent among the antique furniture, or along the
tangled walks, left no more memory than a night of sleep. They
discovered a subtle influence drawing them back, as opium will recall
its victims to their dreams. They knew that the sleep induced by the
Strath was delightful, that happiness was given there; but former
experience told them nothing concerning the nature of that sleep, or
the substance of that happiness.
Outside the garden Conway fell beneath Flora’s spell, and would decide
to settle every pressing affair in London by letter upon his return;
Dr. Berry continued his work on Aeolian poetry, and vaguely remembered
that he had a flock. Inside the garden the world went away from them,
and they were mimes, speaking the words put into their mouths, and
playing the parts which had been assigned to them. All that their
minds were capable of producing was brought out there. So long as they
did not attempt to oppose their will against that of the controller of
the masque, as Henry Reed had done, all went well.
“Of course the place is haunted,” said Maude with a dainty shiver,
when her friend had told her all that she knew. “I don’t think I want
to go there after all. But I should like to see the china. You say
there is lovely china in the drawing-room?”
“Beautiful,” said Flora. “Uncle says there was a rage for china during
Queen Anne’s reign.”
“No atrocities? No horrible wool-work, or samplers, or antimacassars?
No wax-flowers, or leather fruit, or horsehair sofas?” went on the
little lady, confusing her periods.
“I saw none,” said Flora. “I only remember the china, and some
pictures which wouldn’t be allowed nowadays, and a quantity of mirrors
and candles.”
“I am glad there is nothing vulgar,” said Maude. “I almost think I
could go there, if there were plenty of people with me. If the house
is haunted I expect it will all be done in a proper and genteel
fashion. When I went to see Hamlet I was quite prepared to be
frightened when the ghost came on, but I wasn’t, not in the least. He
was such a gentle and aristocratic ghost. I expect the bogey of the
Strath would be just like that.”
The stars in their courses were propitious to Maude. Towards evening
on the following day she encountered the rector of Thorlund, after
driving over to the hamlet in a gig drawn by a tandem of donkeys, and
placing herself in ambush so to speak along his usual walk. She had
been introduced to the scholar by Mr. Price in his offhand fashion
upon the day of her arrival, chancing upon him as they drove from the
station towards Kingsmore. Directly she espied the scholar, she
abandoned gig and donkeys, and fluttered along the field road,
pretending to be busily engaged in gathering a handful of marguerites
and ragged-robins.
He, poor man, was fully occupied with the problem of Sappho’s
morality, mentally weighing the evidence in her favour, sifting the
chaff of legend from the grains of fact as best he might. He did not
perceive Madame Papillon until he heard her salutation; and then he
started and stared up into the golden mist which the sun was trailing
across the side of the hill.
Maude was pretty--just then wonderfully so, because she was anxious to
please--somewhat doll-like perhaps, but beautifully made, and scented,
and bravely tricked out in _batiste_ and lace and flowers and innocent
infant hat. Her throat was as white and soft as the petal of a lily,
and her little nose as dainty as a rosebud. She was frothing over with
life and health, and her feet in toy white shoes were as light as
bird’s wings. Perhaps it was unfortunate for the scholar that his mind
should have been occupied by thoughts of Sappho, whom he admired and
loved academically as the world’s one poetess. Some Greek escaped his
lips involuntarily; he was no pedant, but the sweet Ionic words were
as familiar as his own tongue, and better expressed his thoughts.
“How funny I should have met you!” cried lady frivolous. “Because I
was wondering whether I could summon up enough courage to go all by
myself to the rectory and leave a message. I don’t believe you
recognise me. The sun is dazzling, isn’t it?”
“Ah,” said the scholar. “Yes, the sun blinds me.” He took off his hat,
and the light glinted across the silver of his hair and made it live.
He did not question himself as to whether this divinity was maid,
wife, or widow; he only knew that the apparition was very good to gaze
upon, and he found himself hoping that it would not vanish suddenly.
“I hope your carriage is safe,” he murmured.
“My carriage!” exclaimed Maude with ringing laughter. “Why, it’s only
a wobbly gig, drawn by two of the most ridiculous donkeys. Do come and
look at them. They have ears as long as--as--”
“King Midas after his transformation,” suggested the scholar.
“That’s it,” said Maude, who had no idea what he meant. “But they are
champion trotters. Come into the cart and I’ll drive you home. We
shall be packed tight, but I’m small.”
There was something here which made lyric poetry doubly sweet to the
scholar’s mind. A life of dreams, of fingers on pen, and eyes in
books, had fallowed his heart unconsciously for the reception of a
seed which had been with him nothing but a name. His eyes were sleepy
as he approached the cart, and the lines about his mouth showed
weakness, and there was irresolution in all his actions. This was not
Dr. Berry of the study and the Strath. It was Dr. Berry who was
learning that he was a man.
“Get in,” said Maude.
The scholar obeyed, and the dainty creature followed. The cart was, as
she had said, very small. They filled it, as they sat facing one
another, Maude’s scented frills trailing upon the scholar’s feet, her
breath coming to him when she spoke, her hat brushing his forehead
when she turned with some sudden motion. For the first time in his
life Dr. Berry cast down his eyes and was ashamed. He did not know
that the little beauty was a butterfly: but he began to understand why
Leander swam across the Hellespont and why Sappho flung herself from
the Leucadian rock.
The birds were singing in the beech-wood as they had never sung
before.
“The country is beautiful,” Maude was saying. “Oh, Dr. Berry, I could
live here always, just to walk, sleep, and dream in the sun. But there
would be winter. How I wish we could have summer every day!”
Maude meant nothing that she said. She knew how pretty she looked in
furs. She was a rattle, not understanding her own noise; but the
scholar hung upon her words, and believed them inspired, and did not
know they were murmurings from a shell.
“You have a message for me?” he said, without perception of a
labourer, who passed, and grinned as he touched his hat, at the
strange conjunction of the stately poet with that tiny cart and the
donkeys and the pretty lady.
“Yes,” said Maude, flicking at the flies with her toy whip. “You are
to be at Kingsmore on Thursday. Flora commands your presence, and so
do I. It is impossible for you to refuse.”
“You will be there?” mused the thinker.
“Of course. And I’ll see that you have a comfortable chair in the
rosiest corner of the lawn, and if you feel a sudden desire to write
you shall have pen and ink, and if you are lazy you can talk to me.
But you must not be too clever. I shall tell Flora you are coming. How
do you go to Kingsmore?”
“I seldom leave my home,” the poet answered. “I am not able to fit
myself into society.”
“It’s easy,” said Maude.
“I always walk,” he went on.
“But that must be tiring, especially when the sun is hot. Suppose,”
said Maude, “suppose you found this little cart on the top of the hill
outside Thorlund at half-past-three on Thursday afternoon, and suppose
I drove you in triumph across to Kingsmore--wouldn’t that save you a
lot of trouble, and mightn’t it be rather an inducement for you to
keep your promise?”
Dr. Berry could not remember how he answered, whether indeed he spoke
at all. He looked towards the hill which rose above his valley, and
saw the white road bending away in the far distance. “Would it not be
cruel upon these little animals?” he said, with a more confident
smile.
“Not a bit,” replied Maude. “They are full of oats, and they shall eat
all Thursday morning to prepare themselves for the honour of drawing
wisdom and--”
“Beauty,” added the scholar, sincerely. Folly he should have said, but
Maude was well masked.
One low thatched roof peeped from its green bower, and the mossy spire
of the church pointed reproachfully upward. The poet did not look
there. His eyes were upon the things of earth. A pink rose at Maude’s
throat shed its petals when the cart jolted across a ridge, and the
dainty fragments rained upon his hands. He began to gather them up one
by one, storing them unconsciously in the warm hollow of his hand.
Maude’s eyes were dancing with satisfaction. He had called her
beautiful and she was happy.
The day dedicated to Thor arrived. Down in the valley the sun
scorched, but a gentle breeze was playing across the hills when Dr.
Berry reached the summit and seated himself upon a hummock of short
grass. He had done nothing all the morning, except pace study and
garden, wondering at the tenderness with which he was able to
criticise the self-dedicatory odes of comparatively obscure singers.
So it was passion that called out what was best in mortals. Had
Archilochus not loved Neobule he would have passed into the cloud of
oblivion. Had Sappho been cold and chaste that magnificent ode to the
Goddess of Love could never have been given to the world. The heart,
mused the scholar, not the mind, strikes into being the living fire.
He saw nothing of a frivolous nature in the donkey tandem. He walked
down to meet the cart as it ascended the hill, and Maude greeted him
warmly and began to chat vigorously. She had never spoken so agreeably
to her husband, but, as she would have argued, it was absurd to
fascinate a man who belonged to her. She was a child, playing with
fire, and not to be warned of danger until the fire burnt her.
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Price with more than his usual
fervour, when the gig came jingling up the avenue. Flora contented
herself with smiling, while Mrs. Neill, a fragile lady filled with
inaccuracies of speech, put up her glasses and made her customary
statement, _apropos_ of nothing in particular, that social customs had
changed very much for the worse since that age of respectability when
her dear brother and herself attended school.
The hill country was very sparsely populated with gentry. There were
not more than a dozen guests, of whom the majority had covered a
considerable distance and were on that account leaving early. Everyone
knew the recluse of Thorlund, either by name or reputation, and upon
him were showered the honours of the afternoon. Dr. Berry found
himself in a new element which was not so distasteful as he had
supposed.
“Maudie, how did you manage?” Flora whispered.
“I circumvented him, and told him he was to come,” explained the
little lady. “And here he is.”
“But you drove him!”
“Why not? He brought himself down to my level beautifully.”
Flora slipped away to attend to her guests, giving thanks because she
believed she was more righteous than her friend.
A bald-headed clergyman annexed the scholar, and was leading him apart
with inaccurate historical chatter, when Maude intervened, routed the
bald-headed clergyman, and installed Dr. Berry into the comfortable
chair which she had promised him. Then she brought tea and little
cakes and strawberries, and soothed him with empty talk, which seemed
to him more worthy of attention than words of wisdom. This man, who
had shunned women all his life, not from any innate dislike for the
sex, but simply because no inclination had drawn him on, found his
tongue loosened by the fascinations of the butterfly. Presently he
began to speak of himself, his aspirations, and his work, Maude
leading him on with skilful flattery.
“How I would like to see your wonderful book,” she sighed.
“It is not finished,” he said. “There is still much to be done and I
work slowly. I have a conviction that my translations are, not only
more accurate, but more artistic and powerful than any which have
preceded them. I think if I could read you some of those early
lyrics--”
“I should cry,” interrupted Maude pathetically. “I’m certain I should.
Poetry, or music, or sad pieces at the theatre, always make me cry. I
went to a dreadful pathetic play last winter, and I cried all down a
pretty new frock and spoilt it.”
“Yours is indeed the true poetic temperament,” said the scholar
earnestly. “What a rare and precious gift it is! You, more than
anyone, can understand me when I say that my work has engrossed my
life. Many in their ignorance sneer at the classics, but your mind can
respond with mine to the true message of art. Being yourself beautiful
you are able more readily to appreciate the pure beauty of those
poetic jewels with which the human intellect has enriched the world.”
This last remark was balm and honey to the silly soul of his listener.
“When the book comes out I shall buy it,” she declared. “And you must
write something nice and original upon the front page, and I shall
read it again and again. Will it be out soon? I know a book doesn’t
take long, because I met an author once, and he told me it took him
three weeks to write one of his.”
“I have been fifteen years over my work, and I expect it will take me
another five to complete,” said Dr. Berry.
“Oh, but I can’t wait all that time,” cried Maude. “I shall be old by
then.”
“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety,” quoted
the scholar with unmistakable sincerity.
“How lovely!” said smiling Maude.
He could not see through the pretence of that outward show to the
empty soul within. He never doubted her sincerity; her beauty was
apparent; and he thought her clever and a poetess at heart.
“I will tell you what you must do,” Maude rattled on brilliantly. “You
must read me some of your beautiful poems. Pick out the very best, and
come over to my farm-house on Sunday--no, that’s your workday--on
Monday, and I will give you a cup of tea. I shall look forward to it
immensely. You won’t forget? I shall expect you on Monday.”
“Would you like to hear my verses?” said the delighted scholar. “You
shall hear them. We will discuss their merits. You will be able to
help me by suggestion and advice. Two minds are better than one. Two
kindred minds strike sparks.”
“And I will make you a nice rice cake,” said the little lady,
irrelevantly, but as she thought very happily.
At that point Mrs. Neill interposed, to claim her share of the lion.
She had met him upon previous visits to her brother’s house, and was
desirous of showing him the hidden beauties of the garden; and
obtaining at the same time a full account of the means and position of
the young man who had been lavishing some polite attentions upon
Flora, to-wit Conway, who had been expected that afternoon, but had
failed to appear.
“Maude, you selfish child, I have come for your gentleman,” she
announced. “I want to take you down the garden, Dr. Berry, and show
you a pretty little corpse quite covered with fly-orchids.”
The good lady had meant to say copse. Maude shrieked with laughter,
and corrected her rudely, because she was indignant at being deprived
of her property; and, having revenged herself, she tripped away across
the lawn in a pink froth of frills, with one innocent blue-eyed glance
behind.
“She is very beautiful,” murmured Dr. Berry. “And as clever and good
as she is beautiful.”