TRANSFORMATION.
Captain Frank was everything and did everything that his parents could
have hoped for, except in one direction: he would have nothing said
about marriage. He came home without a murmur; he never uttered a word
of regret about his giving up a profession that he had fair hopes of
advancement in; he adopted his new set of duties with cheerfulness, and
entered with zest into the festivities of the season. For the leaf was
beginning to fall, and all the people about were preparing to shoot the
covers, so that parties had to be made up and invitations issued, and
there soon came to be a general stir throughout the countryside.
Captain Frank, though he was not much of a shot, took his share in all
these things; but he held aloof from womankind, and would not have his
marriage even spoken of by his most intimate relatives.
What was the man made of that he could resist a scene like this?
Imagine an open glade in a beautiful Wiltshire wood on the morning
after a slight fall of snow. The skies are blue, and the world is full
of clear sunlight; the hollies are intensely green over the white of
the snow; here and there on the bare branches are a few red leaves.
Also on the snow itself there is a stain of brownish red in some
places, where the light air of the morning has shaken down withered
needles from a tall pine-tree. Then there is a distant, sharp flutter;
the noise increases; suddenly a beautiful thing--a meteor of bronze and
crimson--comes whirring along at a tremendous pace; Captain Frank
blazes away with one barrel and misses; before he knows where he is the
pheasant seems a couple of miles off in the silver and blue of the sky,
and he does not care to send the second barrel on a roving commission.
He puts his gun over his shoulder, and returns to his pensive
contemplation of the glittering green hollies, and the white snow, and
the maze of bare branches going up into the blue.
But a new figure appears in the midst of this English-looking scene. A
very pretty young lady comes along smiling--her pink cheeks looking all
the pinker, and her blue eyes all the bluer, because of the white snow
and also the white fur round her neck. This is pretty Mary Coventry,
who is staying at present at Kingscourt. She has the brightest of
smiles, and the whitest of teeth.
'Cousin Frank,' she says, 'where do you gentlemen lunch to-day?'
'Look here,' he answers, 'you've come right up the line between the
guns and the beaters.'
'Oh, that's all right,' she says, gaily. 'I know your father doesn't
allow shooting at ground game into cover.'
'Lunch is to be up at the Hill Farm.'
'Oh, that's the very thing. I want a long walk. And I will help
Higgins to have everything ready for you.'
'It will be very rough and tumble. You had much better go back home to
lunch.'
'But I have come for the very purpose! I have brought sugar and
cinnamon to mull the claret for you. You will find it scalding hot
when you come.'
A hare ran by some dozen yards off: he did not fire.
'I see I am in your way. Good-bye for the present.'
'Good-bye. If you do mean to go up to the Hill Farm, you had better
keep to the road. Or else,' he added, laughing, 'Mr. Ferrers will have
something to say to you.'
'Well,' said pretty Mary Coventry to herself, as she passed on and into
the road, 'he did not even thank me for all my trouble. And I always
thought sailors were supposed to be nice. But perhaps he is lamenting
some blackamoor sweetheart in Patagonia, and won't take any notice of
anybody.'
It was about a week after this that Captain Frank, having run up to
town, met a young gentleman in Piccadilly whom he seemed to recognise.
He looked again--yes, it could be no other than Tom Beresford. But it
was Tom Beresford transformed. Mr. Tom was now of age; he had his
club, which he much frequented; he had assumed the air and manner of a
man about town. That is to say, although he was clever enough and had
a sufficient touch of humour, he cultivated a languid stare, and was
chary of speech; and although he was a well-built young fellow, he
walked with his elbows out and his knees in, as if the tightness of his
trousers and his boots made it nigh impossible for him to walk at all.
Moreover, his dress was more rigidly correct than ever; and of course
he carried the inevitable cane--inevitable as the walking-stick of the
Athenian.
Frank King went up to him eagerly.
'Hallo, Beresford, how are you?'
'How are you?' was the answer, as a slight boyish blush somewhat
interfered with the dignity of Mr. Tom. 'How are you? I heard you
were at home again. I heard of you through the Strathernes.'
'And I heard of you in the same way,' said Captain King, who seemed
greatly pleased to meet an old friend. 'I'll turn and walk with you.
I've nothing particular to do.'
'Will you come and lunch with me?' said Mr. Tom (he had recovered
himself after the inadvertent blush). 'We can walk along to the club.'
'Yes, I will; said Frank King, heartily. 'Which is your club?'
'The Waterloo. They call it that because it isn't in Waterloo Place.
It's in Regent Street.'
'All right,' said the other; but instantly he began to pursue his
inquiries. 'Yes, I heard of you and your family from the Strathernes.
There have been great changes since I left England. Your eldest sister
is married, is she not?'
'You mean Moll: yes. They live in town--a small house back there in
Mayfair. He used to be a richer man,' observed Mr. Tom,
contemplatively, 'before he took silk.'
'But they are going to make him a judge, I hear.'
'Faith, then, I hope he'll never have to try me,' said Mr. Tom, with an
air of conviction. 'He and I never could hit it off. I hate pompous
people, and people who give themselves airs. Now, I took a liking to
you the first five minutes I saw you.'
Captain King was dutifully grateful for this condescension. He said he
also hated pompous people--he couldn't bear them. And then he asked
about Tom's sister Edith.
'She's engaged to be married, isn't she?'
'It's my belief,' said Mr. Tom, with a smile, 'that she has engaged
herself to both of them, just to make sure; and that she can't make up
her mind which to send off. I don't wonder at her pulling a wry mouth
about having to marry a soda-water manufacturer; but Soda-water isn't
half a bad sort of fellow, and he is fearfully rich. You see he is
particularly beaming just now, for there have been two or three blazing
hot summers running, and the demand must have been tremendous. Then
young Thynne, he's no end of a swell, no doubt; but you may be cousin
to all kinds of earls and dukes without their giving you anything. I
should fancy his father lets him have two or three hundred a year. I
should like to see the Sentimental get along with that! You can't live
on a fellow's ancestry. I think she should take Soda-water, even if he
hasn't got anything like a father to speak of. And even if he hasn't
got a father--this was what Nan said--he might be equally "_sans pere
et sans reproche_."'
'It was your sister Anne said that, was it?' remarked Frank King,
quickly.
'That was in her saucy days,' said Mr. Tom, sadly. 'It's quite
different now. Now she's on the pious lay.'
'The what?' said Frank King. It was clear that, however Mr. Tom had
altered, he had not chosen to improve his manner of speech.
'Oh, High Church and reredoses,' said the irreverent youth. 'Silver
embroideries, don't you know, and visiting the poor, and catching all
sorts of confounded infection. And then I suppose she'll end by
marrying that curate that's always about the house. What a shame it
is! She used to be such a brick. And to go and marry a curate.'
'I heard of that, too,' said Captain Frank, with a bit of a sigh. It
was indeed among the first things he had heard after returning to
England.
By this time they had reached Mr. Tom's club, which was pleasantly
situated at a corner of the great thoroughfare, so that it had from its
coffee-room windows a spacious view, and was altogether a light and
cheerful sort of place.
'But you don't ask about the Baby,' said Mr. Tom, as he was entering
his friend's name in the strangers' book--the Waterloo being a
hospitable little club that allowed visitors to come in at any hour.
'And the Baby _is_ in a hole.'
'Well, it must be a sad thing for a baby to be in a hole; but I don't
quite understand,' said Captain King.
'Don't you remember the Baby? The youngest--Madge?'
'Oh. Well, I only saw her once, I think. What is the matter with her?'
'First pick out what you want for lunch, and then I'll tell you.'
This was easily done; and the two friends sat down at a small
window-table, which enabled them to glance out at the passing crowd,
and even as far as the Duke of York's column and the tops of the trees
in St. James's Park.
'You see my sisters have all been wards in Chancery. I was also,' said
Mr. Tom, with a slight blush; for he was no more than six months
escaped from tutelage. 'I suppose the executors funked something about
my father's will; at all events, they flung the whole thing in. Well,
no great harm has come of it; not so much cost or worry as you would
expect. Only the girls have had bad times of it about their
sweethearts. I mean the Baby----'
'The Baby! How old is she?'
'Eighteen; and uncommonly good-looking, I think. Have some sherry.
Well, the Baby made the acquaintance at somebody's house of a young
fellow--son of a barrister--not a farthing but what he picks up at
pool. I don't think she meant anything--I don't a bit. There's a lot
of that kind of nonsense goes on down there: Nan is the only one who
has kept clear out of it. Well, the guardians didn't see it; and they
went to the Court, and they got the Vice-Chancellor to issue an order
forbidding young Hanbury from having any sort of communication with
Madge. Now, you know, if you play any games with an order of that sort
hanging over you, it's the very devil. It is. Won't you have some
pickles?'
'And how is Miss Madge affected by the order?' asked Captain King.
'Oh,' said this garrulous youth, who had entirely forgotten his
cultivated, reticent manner in meeting this old friend, 'she pretends
to be greatly hurt, and thinks it cruel and heart-breaking and all the
rest of it; but that's only her fun, don't you know? She's precious
glad to get out of it, that's my belief; and nobody knew better than
herself he wouldn't do at all. Finished? Come and have a game of
billiards then.'
They went upstairs to a long, low-roofed apartment, in which were two
tables. They lit cigars, chose their cues, and fell to work. Frank
King had not played half-a-dozen strokes when Mr. Tom said, generously--
'I will put you on thirty points.'
They played five minutes longer.
'Look here, I will give you another thirty.'
'Sixty in a hundred?' said King, laughing. 'Well, that is rather a
confession of bad play.'
'Oh, as for that,' said Mr. Tom, 'I don't see that a naval officer
should be ashamed of playing badly at billiards. He should be proud of
it. I shan't glory in it if I beat you.'
Mr. Tom was really very friendly. After a couple of games or so he
said--
'Look here, it's nearly four o'clock. I am going down to Brighton by
the 4.30. Will you come down and see my mother and the girls? I am
afraid we can't put you up; but you can get a bedroom at the Norfolk or
Prince's; and we dine at eight.'
Frank King hesitated for a minute or two. Ever since he had come to
England he had had a strange wish to see Nan Beresford, even though he
had heard she was going to be married. He wished to see whether she
had turned out to be what he had predicted to himself; whether she
retained those peculiar distinctions of character and expression and
manner that had so attracted him; somehow he thought he would like just
to shake hands with her for a moment, and see once before him those
clear, blue-gray, shy, humorous eyes. But this proposal was too
sudden. His heart jumped with a quick dismay. He was not prepared.
Nevertheless, Tom Beresford insisted. Was Captain King staying at a
hotel? No; he had got a bedroom in Cleveland Row. That was the very
thing; they could stop the hansom there on their way to Victoria
Station. The girls would be glad to see him. They had always been
watching his whereabouts abroad, in the Admiralty appointments in the
newspapers.
At last, with some little unexpressed dread, Frank King consented; and
together they made their way to Victoria Station.
'You know,' said Mr. Tom, apologetically, in the Pullman, 'I've been
talking a lot about my sisters; but I tell you honestly I don't see any
girls to beat them anywhere. I don't. The Sentimental is rather
stupid, perhaps; but then she scores by her music. Nan's the one for
my money, though. She isn't the prettiest; but set her down at any
dinner table, and you can lay odds on her against the field. I believe
there are a dozen old gentlemen who have got her name in their
will--not that she cares for worldly things any more--it is all
sanctity now. I wish to goodness somebody would----'
But Mr. Tom had a little discretion. He said no more.
'I suppose they are all very much changed in appearance,' Frank King
said, thoughtfully. 'I shouldn't be surprised if I scarcely recognised
them.'
'Oh, yes, they are. And I will confess that Nan has improved in one
way. She isn't as cheeky as she used to be; she's awfully
good-natured--she'd do anything for you. When I get into trouble, I
know Nan will be my sheet-anchor.'
'Then I hope the cable will hold,' said Frank King.
They reached Brighton. Tom Beresford found his companion strangely
silent and preoccupied. The fact was that Captain Frank was very
unusually agitated. He hoped she might not be alone. Then he strove
to convince himself that she must be quite altered now. She must be
quite different from the young girl who walked up the Splugen Pass with
him. Then she was scarcely over seventeen; now she was over twenty.
He would see some one he might fail to recognise; not the Nan of former
days; not the Nan that had long ago enchained him with her frank odd
ways, and her true eyes.
They drove first to a hotel, and secured a bed; then they went to
Brunswick Terrace. When they went upstairs to the drawing-room, they
found it empty.
'They can't be all out,' said Mr. Tom; 'I'll go and find them.'
He left; and Captain Frank began to try to quiet down this uncalled-for
perturbation. Why should he fear to see her? The past was over.
Never was any decision given more irrevocably; even if there had been
any question as to an open future, that had been disposed of by the
news that had met him on his return to England. It ought only to be a
pleasure to him to see her. He thought she would welcome him in a kind
way; and he would show her that he quite accepted circumstances as they
were. Only--and this he kept repeating to himself--he must expect to
be disillusionised. Nan would no longer be that former Nan. Some of
the freshness and the young wonder would be gone; she would be eligible
as a friend; that, on the whole, was better.
Well, the door opened, and he turned quickly, and then his heart
jumped. No; she had not changed at all, he said to himself, as she
advanced towards him with a smile and a frankly extended hand. The
same pleasant eyes, the same graceful, lithe figure, the same soft
voice, as she said--
'Oh, how do you do, Captain King?'
And yet he was bewildered. There was something strange.
'I--I am very glad to see you again, Miss Anne,' he stammered.
She looked at him for a moment, puzzled, and then she said, with a
quiet smile,--
'Oh, but I'm not Nan. I see you have forgotten me. I'm Madge.'