MR. BROWN DINES AT THE COURT
Both to him and to her there was something strangely unreal in the
little banquet to which they three--Mr. Thurwell, his daughter, and his
tenant--sat down that evening. For many months afterwards, until,
indeed, after the culmination of the tragedy in which she was the
principal moving figure, Helen Thurwell looked back upon that night with
strangely mingled feelings. It was the dawn of a new era in her
existence, a fact which she never doubted, although she struggled vainly
against it. And to him it was like a sudden transition into fairyland.
The long years of lonely life and rigorous asceticism through which he
had passed had been a period of no ordinary self-denial. Instinctively
and with his whole nature the man was an artist. His homely fare,
ill-cooked and ill-served among dreary surroundings, had for long been a
horror to him. Whatever his reasons for such absolute isolation had
been, they had sprung from no actual delight in rough living or
non-appreciation of the refinements of civilized society. He realized to
the full extent the sybaritic pleasures which now surrounded him. The
white tablecloth flaming with daintily modeled plate and cut glass, the
brilliant coloring of the scarlet and yellow flowers, the aromatic
perfume of the chrysanthemums mingling with the faint scent of exotics,
the luscious fruits, and the softly shaded table lights which threw a
rich glow over the lovely face opposite to him--all these things had
their own peculiar effect in the shape of a certain subtle exhilaration
which was not slow to show itself. With scarcely an effort he threw off
the old mask of reserve, with all the little awkwardnesses and
gaucheries which it had entailed, and appeared as the shadow of the self
of former days--a cultured, polished man of the world. Even Mr.
Thurwell's good breeding was scarcely sufficient to conceal his surprise
at the metamorphosis. Never before, at his table, had there been such a
brilliant flow of conversation--conversation which had all the rare art
of appearing general, whereas it was indeed nothing less than a
monologue on the part of this strange guest. He had traveled far, he had
seen great things in many countries, and he had known great men; and he
talked lightly about them all, with the keen appreciation of the artist,
and the graceful diction of the scholar. He was a man who had lived in
the world--every little action and turn of speech denoted it. The French
dishes--Mr. Thurwell was proud of his chef--were no secret to him, and
he knew all about the vintages of the wines he was drinking. In the
whole course of his experience, Mr. Thurwell had never entertained such
a guest as this, and it was a sore trial to his good manners to abstain
from any astonished comment on the lonely life his tenant had been
lately leading.
And Helen sat listening to it all with a sort of dreamy content stealing
over her, out of which she was stirred every now and then into
enthusiasm by some brilliant criticism or fresh turn to the
conversation. At such times her gray luminous eyes, with their strange
dash of foreign color, would light up and flash their sympathetic
approval across the few feet of tablecloth blazing with many-colored
flowers and fruits and glittering silver. And he grew to look for this,
and to receive it with an answering glance from his own dark eyes, full
of a strange light and power. She, watching him more keenly than her
father could, was conscious of something that altogether escaped him, a
sort of undercurrent of suppressed excitement which never rose to the
surface, and revealed itself in none of his mannerisms or his tone. But
it was there, and she felt it--felt it more than ever when their eyes
met, and hers were forced to droop before the steady fire in his, which
more than once brought the faint color into her cheeks, and sent a new
sensation quivering through her being.
Dinner came to an end at last, but when she rose to go her father
protested. She generally sat with him while he smoked a cigarette and
drank his coffee. Why should she go away now? They were making no
stranger of Mr. Brown. And so she stayed.
Presently she found herself strolling round the room by his side,
showing him the pictures which hung lightly upon the high oak panels,
and the foreign bric-a-brac and Italian vases ranged along the wide
black ledge a little below. Her father had been obliged to go out and
speak to the head gamekeeper about some suspected poaching, and they
were alone.
"This is where I like to sit after dinner, when we are alone," she said;
and, lifting some heavy drooping curtains, she led him into a quaint
recess, almost as large as an ordinary room. A shaded lamp was burning
on a small Burmese table, and the faint fragrance of burning pine logs
stole up from the open hearth and floated about on the air, already
slightly perfumed with the odor of chrysanthemums clustered together in
quaint blue china bowls, little patches of gold-and-white coloring,
where everything else was somber and subdued. She sank into a low basket
chair before the fire, and, obeying her gesture, he seated himself
opposite to her.
"Now, talk to me, please," she said, half hiding her face with a feather
screen to protect it from the fire. "No commonplacisms, mind! I have
heard nothing else all my life, and I am weary of them. And, first,
please to light a cigarette. You will find some in the silver box by
your side. I like the perfume."
He did as he was bidden in silence. For a moment he watched the faint
blue smoke curl upward, stole a glance around him, and drew a long
breath as though he were drinking in to the full the artistic content of
the exquisite harmony and coloring, of his surroundings. Then he threw a
sudden, swift look upon the beautiful girl who was leaning back in her
low chair, with her fair head resting upon a cushion of deep olive
green, and her eyes fixed expectantly upon him. She was so near that, by
stretching out his hand, he could have seized her small shapely fingers;
so near, that he could even detect the delicate scent of lavender from
the lace of her black dinner gown. He took in every detail of her dainty
toilette from the single diamond which sparkled in the black velvet
around her throat, to the exquisitely slippered feet resting lightly
upon a tiny sage-green footstool, and just visible through the
gossamerlike draperies which bordered her skirts. In the world of her
sex she had become an era to him.