“La vie est vaine:
Un peu d’amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis—bonjour!”
“REALLY, Mary, it’s absurd to stay away from the picnic! And I simply
can’t go if you won’t. That odious Mrs. Collins makes the most hateful
chaperon, with her ‘Come here, my dear!’ just at the wrong moments.
_Won’t_ you come, Mary?” Gladys, in the most delicate of Dresden
flowered silks, with a huge hat one mass of pale pink roses and black
velvet, looked imploringly at her companion.
She was a girl it was impossible to describe without mentioning her
clothes. One felt if she had worn a yachting suit with gilt buttons she
would have looked pathetic. Mary Huntly took one of the little hands in
hers.
“The truth is, dear—but don’t, please, tell Tom—I had a slight
hæmorrhage this morning. Nothing much, it is true, but these tiresome
lungs will bother me, and I know I ought to keep quiet to-day.”
“You never used to be so fussy about your health, Mary,” exclaimed the
girl petulantly. There is nothing that so torments a brave woman as a
gibe at nervousness. It was true that Mary had conquered her fear, but
she knew it to be something that comes again, and would never while she
lived cease to give up coming. She winced and let the girl’s hand drop;
she had not voice enough to explain. The persistent cruel healthiness of
the girl before her aroused in her a kind of defiance.
“Since you are so keen, dear, I will go,” she said, “but I hope they
won’t expect me to talk!” She laughed huskily.
“Tom is out shooting, isn’t he?” she asked Gladys later as they walked
towards the carriage which was to take them to their destination.
“How funny you are, Mary! You never used to be so interested in Tom’s
movements,” laughed Gladys; “he won’t be back, I don’t suppose, till
long after we are.” An hour later, by a half-ruined temple, under the
shade of great enshrouding trees, Jack Hurstly sitting beside Gladys
asked her a little sharply if her cousin wasn’t very seedy.
“Yes, poor dear!” said Gladys with the wistful, pathetic look that had
helped to draw Mary to the picnic; “and she’s so dreadfully plucky and
determined, I couldn’t persuade her to stay at home with me. I can’t
tell you how anxious it makes me feel!”
Jack’s eyes grew tender over her. Hats of a certain shade cast sincerity
in a becoming glow over an upturned face. He wanted to help her, protect
her, comfort her! His vexation was transferred to Mary. It must be such
a strain to go about with an obstinate, sick woman. Jim Musgrave sat by
his aunt. All the rest had gone off somewhere—a general direction to
which all picnics tend where there is no one to victimize the party with
games. Gladys had promised to go and see an ancient well with Jim, and
she had gone to see it—with Jack Hurstly; only Mrs. Collins and Jim sat
with Mary. Suddenly she put her hand on his arm.
“Jim—take—me—home,” she cried. It was the end of the picnic.