|MR. AIREY had called on Beatrice since his return from that melancholy
entertainment at Abbeylands, but he had not been fortunate enough to
find her at home. Now, however, he was more lucky. She had already two
visitors with her in the big drawing-room, when Mr. Airey was announced.
He could not fail to notice the little flush upon her face as he
entered. He noticed it, and it was extremely gratifying to him to do so;
only he hoped that her visitors were not such close observers as he
knew himself to be. He would not have liked them--whoever they were---to
leave the house with the impression that he was a lover. If they were
close observers and inclined to gossip, they might, he felt, consider
themselves justified in putting so liberal an interpretation upon her
quick flush as he entered.
He did not blush: he had been a Member of Parliament for several years.
Yes, she was clearly pleased to see him, and her manifestation of
pleasure made him assured that he had never seen a lovelier girl. It was
so good of him not to forget her, she declared. He feared that her flush
would increase, and suggest the peony rather than the peach. But he
quickly perceived that she had recovered from the excitement of his
sudden appearance, and that, as a matter of fact, she was becoming pale
rather than roseate.
He noticed this when her visitors--they were feeble folk, the head of a
department in the Museum and his sister--had left the house.
“It is delightful to be face to face with you once more,” he said. “I
seem to hear the organ-music of the Atlantic now that I am beside you
again.”
She gave a little laugh--did he detect something of scorn in its
ring?--as she said, “Oh, no; it is the sound of the greater ocean that
we have about us here. It is the tide of the affairs of men that flows
around us.”
No, her laugh could have had nothing of scorn about it.
“I cannot think of you as borne about on this full tide,” said he. “I
see you with your feet among the purple heather--I wonder if there was a
sprig of white about it--along the shores of the Irish lough. I see you
in the midst of a flood of sunset-light flowing from the west, making
the green one red.”
She saw that sunset. He was describing the sunset that had been
witnessed from the deck of the yacht returning from the seal-hunt beyond
the headlands. Did he know why she got up suddenly from her seat and
pretended to snuff one of the candles on the mantelshelf? Did he know
how close the tears were to her eyes as she gave another little laugh?
“So long as you do not associate me with Mr. Durdan’s views on the Irish
question, I shall be quite satisfied,” said she. “Poor Mr. Durdan! How
he saw a bearing upon the Irish question in all the phenomena of Nature!
The sunset--the sea--the clouds--all had more or less to do with the
Irish question.”
“And he was not altogether wrong,” said Edmund. “Mr. Durdan is a man
of scrupulous inaccuracy, as a rule, but he sometimes stumbles across a
truth. The sea and sky are eternal, and the Irish question----”
“Is the rock upon which the Government is to be wrecked, I believe,”
said she. “Oh, yes; Mr. Durdan confided in me that the days of the
Government are numbered.”
“He became confidential on that topic to a considerable number of
persons,” said Edmund.
“And we are confidential on Mr. Durdan as a topic,” said she.
“We have talked confidentially on more profitable topics, have we not?”
said he.
“We have talked confidently at least.”
“And confidingly, I hope. I told you all my aspirations, Miss Avon.”
“All?”
“Well, perhaps, I made some reservations.”
“Oh.”
“Perhaps I shall tell you confidentially of some other aspirations of
mine--some day.”
He spoke slowly and with an emphasis and suggestiveness that could not
be overlooked.
“And you will speak confidently on that subject, I am sure.”
She was lying back in her chair, with the firelight fluttering over her.
The firelight was flinging rose leaves about her face.
That was what the effect suggested to him.
He noticed also how beautiful was the effect of the light shining
through her hair. That was an effect which had been noticed before.
She turned her eyes suddenly upon him, when he did not reply to her
word, “confidently.”
He repeated the word.
“Confidently--confidently;” then he shook his head. “Alas! no. A man who
speaks confidently on the subject of his aspirations--on the subject of
a supreme aspiration--is a fool.”
“And yet I remember that you assured me upon one occasion that man was
master of his fate,” said she.
“Did I?” said he. “That must have been when you first appeared among us
at Castle Innisfail. I have learned a great deal since then.”
“For example?” said she.
“Modesty in making broad statements where Fate is concerned,” he
replied, with scarcely a pause.
She withdrew her eyes from his face, and gave a third laugh, closely
resembling in its tone her first--that one which caused him to wonder if
there was a touch of scorn in its ripple.
He looked at her very narrowly. She was certainly the loveliest thing
that he had ever seen. Could it be possible that she was leading him on?
She had certainly never left herself open to the suspicion of leading
him on when at Castle Innis-fail--among the purple heather or the
crimson sunsets about which he had been talking--and yet he had been
led on. He had a suspicion now that he was in peril. He had so fine an
understanding of woman and her motives, that he became apprehensive of
the slightest change. He was, in respect of woman, what a thermometer is
when aboard a ship that is approaching an iceberg. He was appreciative
of every change--of every motive.
“I was looking forward to another pleasant week near you,” said he, and
his remark somehow seemed to have a connection with what he had been
saying--had he not been announcing an acquirement of modesty?--“Yes, if
you had been with us at Abbeylands you might have become associated in
my mind with the glory of the colour of an autumn woodland. But it was,
of course, fortunate for you that you got the terrible news in time to
prevent your leaving town.”
He felt that she had become suddenly excited. There was no ignoring the
rising and falling of the lace points that lay upon the bosom of her
gown. The question was: did her excitement proceed from what he had
said, or from what she fancied he was about to say?
It was a nice question.
But he bore out his statement regarding his gain in modesty, by assuming
that she had been deeply affected by the story of the tragic end of Lord
Fotheringay, so that she could not now hear a reference to it without
emotion.
“I wonder if you care for German Opera,” said he. There could scarcely
be even the most subtle connection between this and his last remark.
She looked at him with something like surprise in her eyes when he had
spoken. Only to some minds does a connection between criminality and
German Opera become apparent.
“German Opera, Mr. Airey?”
“Yes. The fact is that I have a box for the winter season at the Opera
House, and my cousin, Mrs. Carroll, means to go to every performance,
I believe; she is an enthusiast on the subject of German Opera--she has
even sat out a performance of ‘Parsifal’--and I know that she is eager
to make converts. She would be delighted to call upon you when she
returns from Brighton.”
“It is so kind of you to think of me. I should love to go. You will be
there--I mean, you will be able to come also, occasionally?”
He looked at her. He had risen from his seat, being about to take leave
of her. She had also risen, but her eyes drooped as she exclaimed, “You
will be there?”
She did not fail to perceive the compromising sequence of her phrases,
“I should love to go. You will be there?” She was looking critically at
the toe of her shoe, turning it about so that she could make a thorough
examination of it from every standpoint. Her hands, too, were busy tying
knots on the girdle of her gown.
He felt that it would be cruel to let her see too plainly that he was
conscious of that undue frankness of hers; so he broke the awkward
silence by saying--not quite casually, of course, but still in not too
pointed a way, “Yes, I shall be there, occasionally. Not that my
devotion will be for German Opera, however.” The words were well chosen,
he felt. They were spoken as the legitimate sequence to those words that
she had uttered in that girlish enthusiasm, which was so charming. Only,
of course, being a man, he could choose his words. They were
artificial--the result of a choice; whereas it was plain that she could
not choose but utter the phrases that had come from her. She was a girl,
and so spoke impulsively and from her heart.
“Meantime,” said she--she had now herself almost under control again,
and was looking at him with a smile upon her face as she put out her
hand to meet his. “Meantime, you will come again to see me? My father is
greatly occupied with his history, otherwise he also would, I know, be
very pleased to see you.”
“I hope that you will be pleased,” said he. “If so, I will
call--occasionally--frequently.”
“Frequently,” said she, and once again--but only for a moment this
time--she scrutinized her foot.
“Frequently,” said he, in a low tone. Being a man he could choose his
tones as well as his words.
He went away with a deep satisfaction dwelling within him--the
satisfaction of the clever man who feels that he has not only spoken
cleverly, but acted cleverly--which is quite a different thing.
Later on he felt that he need not have been in such a hurry calling
upon her. He had gone to her directly after visiting Harold. He had
been under the impression that he would do well to see her and make his
proposal to her regarding the German Opera season without delay. The
moment that he had heard of Lord Fotheringay’s death, it had occurred to
him that he would do well to lose no time in paying her a visit. After
due consideration, he had thought it advisable to call upon Harold in
the first instance. He had done so, and the result of his call was to
make him feel that he should not any longer delay his visit to Beatrice.
Now, as has been said, he felt that he need not have been in such a
hurry.
“_I should love to go--you will be there_.”
Yes, those were the words that had sprung from her heart. The sequence
of the phrases had not been the result of art or thought.
He had clearly under-estimated the effect of his own personality upon
an impressionable girl who had a great historian for a father. The days
that he had passed by her side--carrying out the compact which he had
made with Helen Craven--had produced an impression upon her far more
powerful than he had believed it possible to produce within so short a
space of time.
In short, she was his.
That is what he felt within an hour of parting from her; and all his
resources of modesty and humility were unequal to the task of changing
his views on this point.
Was he in love with her?
He believed her to be the most beautiful woman whom he had ever seen.