That night Vanna lay awake long after lying down, living over again the
dramatic happening of the last few days.
"`It's a mad world, my masters,'" she said to herself between a smile
and a sigh. "No sooner do I receive a sentence of celibacy for life
than I am promptly introduced to a new and interesting personality, a
nice man, a superlatively nice man, a man, moreover, who shows every
sign of returning the compliment and thinking me a superlatively nice
girl into the bargain--when, presto! he discovers himself in the light
of Jean's future husband. I know it, and she doesn't. The drollness of
the situation! At this moment she is sleeping in placid innocence,
while I am a-thrill at the dawning of her romance. She will marry him--
oh, yes! She will marry him; as certainly as she stood under that palm
tree waiting to-night. What a lovely rose she made, and how his eyes
glowed as he looked at her! Superstition or no superstition, that big,
simple heart has accepted her as his wife as unquestionably as if a
trumpet blast from heaven had proclaimed her name. It's such an easy
thing to tumble into love with Jean; the trouble is for any masculine
thing to keep steady on his feet. He will worship her, and she must
love him in return, as the perfect complement of herself. He so calm,
and trustful, and serene; she, airy, impulsive, rebellious; but even in
her naughtiest moods so lovable and feminine a thing. Well! as I am
never to have a romance of my own, I must needs find double interest in
Jean's and enjoy myself vicariously through her. It will be quick work.
That dramatic meeting carried him in a flash past all the initial stage
of wonder and uncertainty. It's rather a pity, I should have loved to
watch it grow; but it has sprung into life full-grown. Oh, Jean, Jean,
how little you know--how little you guess!"
Then Vanna's thoughts flew back to the moment when, on the way through
the ballroom, she had found herself alone with Robert Gloucester after
the dramatic encounter in the conservatory. Their eyes had met, and she
had spoken a few words on the flood of an overwhelming impulse.
"I won't tell her. I promise not to tell."
"Thank you," he had replied warmly. "It will be better. I would
rather--"
He paused at that, but there was about him a transparency of candour
which made it easy to divine what he had been about to say, "I'll would
rather tell her myself!"
Vanna's heart knew a little cramp of envy at all which that sentence
implied.
Next morning, over a late and leisurely breakfast, Jean had much to say
on the subject of her last night's experiences.
"I danced a hole in my slippers--a little one, and quite a big one in
Captain Gregson's heart. He is, like all sailors, absurdly susceptible.
I made only my second-best eyes at him. Like this! In my best effort
I look up helplessly, appealingly, and then, down, quite a long time
down, because curling dark eyelashes look so well when one's cheeks are
flushed. I just opened them rather widely at the Captain once or twice
as we sat out after a dance, and he fell down flat. Dear, big, stupid
thing, he can't take care of himself one bit. He asked if he might
call, but I shan't be at home. I always stop short of the danger-point,
as you know quite well, so don't make faces at me, my dear, and, above
all things, don't preach. If you preached, I might be capable of seeing
him, and showing my eyelashes. Opposition always drives me hard the
other way. You looked tired, dear. Were you bored? Three separate men
asked me who you were. I dissembled, and said you were `a Miss
Strangeways,' and listened with all my ears to what they would say next.
One said, `she is not exactly pretty, but one notices her. She has an
air.' Another said, `I do like to see a girl well groomed. It's
refreshing to look at her head.' The third said, `that girl would be
worth knowing. It's a fine face.'"
Vanna's smile was a somewhat laboured effort.
"You mustn't repeat masculine compliments, Jean. They are forbidden
sweets. I shall never settle down into a steady-going `Affliction
Female' if you dangle worldly gauds before my eyes. I'm not going to
any more balls. My capacity for frivol has died a violent death, and I
feel all `out of the picture' in a ballroom. I must find more serious
occupations for my life."
"Vanna, what rubbish! You are only twenty-three; you have your whole
long life ahead. If it's going to be dull, that's all the more reason
why you should enjoy yourself now. I thought you would live in town,
and we should do everything together. Can't you forget the future,
dear, and enjoy the hour--buying pretty things and wearing them, and
music, and flowers, and dancing, and talking things over afterwards?
That has always been one of the best bits--comparing notes after the
fray; making fun of other people, and ourselves! _Don't_ fall out,
Vanna, and leave me to go on alone!"
"You won't be alone!" The words were spoken instinctively, but Vanna
drew herself up with instant compunction. "You have so many other
friends, Jean, and I shall fall out for the festivities only. In all
other respects we shall be as much together as before. Perhaps in time
to come I may be festive once more, but for the moment I'm knocked out
of time, and must hide my head like the ostrich. I made myself go to
the ball last night, but it was not a success. I shan't try it again."
Jean lifted her chin, with the slightly obstinate expression in which
she took refuge when her will was questioned.
"Oh-h! Well, you know best--or at least, you imagine you do. I should
have thought, however, being of a simple and credulous nature, that you
were enjoying yourself excessively when you walked through that
conservatory last night. If you wished to hide your head at that moment
you were a remarkably modest ostrich, for it looked most animated and
attractive. Who was your partner, by the way? He looked quite nice."
"Quite nice!" Vanna lifted her coffee-cup to hide a twitching lip.
Behold the historic moment, and the heroine's romantic impression of her
future spouse. "I must remember this," was the mental resolve, as she
answered tranquilly:
"He was more than nice, he was a delightful man. I was not introduced
to him until after twelve o'clock, but our talk together was the best
part of the evening. His name is Gloucester."
Jean dropped her fork with a little clatter of surprise.
"Gloucester? Not Robert Gloucester? Surely not! He could not possibly
have been there."
"He was, though. Very much there, for he is staying in the house. He
naively observed that he had intended to go to bed, but as the
`confounded noise' had kept him awake, he came downstairs in
desperation, and Miss Morton introduced him to me. You did not look as
if you recognised each other."
"We didn't! I have never seen him before, but I have heard--oh, my
dear, libraries about him! He is the Mortons' theme. We all have
themes, on which we fall back on every possible pause of the
conversation. My theme, poor butterfly, is fun and clothes; yours, my
angel, has been the same, plus a tinge of duty and maiden aunt; the
Mortons' is Robert Gloucester, his words, deeds, thoughts, looks, ideas.
He's been abroad for years and years, chiefly occupied in losing his
money, so far as I can understand. He seems to have a specialty for
losing money, but their infatuation is such that it is counted to him as
an added charm. The boring times I have had listening to prosy accounts
of his trials and adventures, when I have wanted to discuss a hat! And
then at last he was coming home, the ball was arranged so that he should
be there, I expected him to dance half the night with me: it was the
least he could do, considering how I had suffered for him; and behold he
hides upstairs, and creeps down to sit on balconies with another girl!
Wretch! Why on earth could they not have introduced him to me, instead
of to you?"
"You were not sitting by your lone, a dejected wallflower, while your
partners gorged in the supper-room. I was. We took pity on one
another, and determined to talk, not dance."
"And pray, what did you talk about?"
Again Vanna's lip gave a quick, involuntary twitch.
"Different things. He told me that he had just returned to England, and
spoke of foreign countries--his adventures--"
"Oh, but this must be stopped!" Jean shook her head with would-be
solemnity. "The Mortons have advertised him sufficiently in advance; he
really cannot be allowed to be egotistical on his own account. I shall
take him in hand. I shall say to him gently but firmly, `My excellent
youth, your biography has already run through many editions. Let it
rest. Variety is refreshing for mind as well as body. Allow your
thoughts to stray for a moment to some one besides your wonderful self.
Think, for example, of _Me_!'"
She waved her hand in dramatic fashion as she spoke, flashing a
mischievous glance at her friend, her face a-sparkle with mischief.
Jean's vivid young beauty seemed ever to be asserting itself in fresh
phases, so that even those who lived in the same house and looked upon
her every day of their lives were continually evoked to fresh
admiration. As in watching the movements of an exquisite child, moments
of satiety seemed impossibly remote.
Vanna thought with a leaping pulse: "How he will love her!" and smiled
back tenderly into the glowing face.
How soon, and in what fashion would the dramatic meeting take place?
She was possessed with an immense curiosity to forecast the events of
the next few days. Robert Gloucester would not, she was convinced, be
content to wait upon chance, but having been vouchsafed a glimpse of his
treasure, would not rest until he had furthered the acquaintance. In a
light, unsuspicious manner it was evident that Jean's expectation had
also been aroused, for as the visiting hour of the afternoon drew near
she displayed an unwillingness to leave the house, donned her prettiest
dress, and seated herself in the drawing-room, in what was evidently a
waiting mood.
"Put a rose in your belt, Jean. You ought always to wear a rose," Vanna
said, holding out a bowl of fragrant blooms for approval, and Jean
obeyed, casting the while a smilingly defiant glance at the angular
woman who sat knitting near at hand. If ever the word spinster was
written large over a human creature, it was written over Mrs Goring,
wife of the genial Philip, and stepmother to his daughter Jean. Yet she
was not only a wife, but a mother, and her husband and the two growing
schoolboys regarded her with a sincere if somewhat prosaic affection.
Jean's mental position with regard to her stepmother was somewhat more
complicated. "I love her with my head, with my judgment, with my
conscience; on Sundays, when the sermon is extra good; when she has
asthma, and gasps for breath; when the boys are ill, and she looks white
and trembly; at other times--_no_! with my heart--_never_! We are miles
apart, and no bridge is long enough to bring us together. I am her
husband's daughter, so it is her duty to feel an affection for me; she
never shirks a duty, so she tries hard morning and evening to love me as
she should, and asks forgiveness every night because she can't manage to
do it. I don't try--because I'm bad, you'll say; really, because I'm
too wise. It's no use _trying_ to love; but I'm far more obedient and
docile than I should be if she were my own dear mother. I should have
teased her, and argued, and been cross and perverse--every naughty thing
in turn, as the mood took me; and then I should have been sorry, and
cried, and she would have forgiven me, and we'd have loved each other
harder than ever. But the mater and I never quarrel. That ought to
score a great big mark to our credit."
On the present occasion Mrs Goring justified her character for keeping
her temper, for, trying as it was to her practical nature to behold her
stepdaughter decking herself with flowers in the afternoon, and idling
over a piece of useless crewel work, she made no spoken protest, but
contented herself with pursing her thin lips, and clicked her
knitting-needles together as she worked.
Presently a visitor was announced, and then another; tea was served, and
it was after five o'clock when at last the announcement came for which
both girls had been impatiently waiting.
"Miss Morton, Mr Gloucester."
The girl swept in with the assurance of an intimate friend. Robert
Gloucester followed slowly, his spare figure towering above hers, his
face set and strained. Vanna saw at a glance that he was consumed with
nervousness, and during the first ten minutes of his stay he hardly
allowed himself a glance in Jean's direction. When she handed tea he
took it with eyes fixed on the cup, and promptly sought the corner by
Vanna's side to mumble platitudes about the weather, and listen absently
to her replies.
How long would Jean allow so unsatisfactory a state of affairs? "I'll
give her five minutes," was Vanna's verdict; but before that time had
elapsed Jean had so cleverly manipulated the conversation that Vanna was
being questioned across the length of the drawing-room, so that it
seemed the most natural thing in the world to suggest a change of seats.
"Come over here, Vanna, dear, and tell them all about it! I'll talk to
Mr Gloucester!" Jean floated across the room in her white dress, and
laid a caressing hand on her friend's shoulder. It was a pure impulse
of coquetry which made her take the rose from her belt as she seated
herself in the discarded corner of the sofa. One could make such pretty
by-play with a flower, twirling it to and fro, stroking the petals,
daintily drinking in its fragrance. To the woman that rose gave an
added consciousness of power; from the man the sight of it took away
what little composure he retained. His hand shook until the teaspoon
rattled against the cup; and he placed it unemptied on the table by his
side. He stammered; he was unhinged, tongue-tied. Jean, who had been
prepared to rebuke self-confidence, adopted an instant change of
tactics. Her little airs and graces died a rapid death; the tilt of the
head was replaced by a gentle droop, her complacent smile changed to an
artless appeal. The poor, dear man must be encouraged. He had been
buried in the wilds, with lions and elephants for companions; he was all
unnerved to find himself in an English drawing-room, face to face with a
pretty girl.
"I've waited such a long time to see you," said Jean softly. "Edith and
I are great friends and she has told me so much about you. I could
stand quite a stiff examination on your doings and goings of the last
few years. Some day you shall cross-question me and see. When I've
been particularly good I've even heard extracts from your letters. I
can't possibly treat you as a stranger!"
"I--I ought to apologise. I hope you have not been bored."
He looked up as he spoke, and for the first time met the full gaze of
Jean's eyes--those eyes which were a revelation of beauty even to dull
elderly members of her own sex. Gloucester's gaze lingered with an
intensity which held her bound in return; but mingling with his
eagerness was an expression of humility, almost of awe, which Jean found
strangely disconcerting. She lowered her lids at his glance, forgetful
for once of the effect of fringed ladies, and made her reply with a
little tremble of nervousness in her voice.
"Not at all bored, but very interested. Are you glad to be back in
England; and how does it look to you after your long absence? Are you
going to stay at home?"
"I'm glad--immensely glad! Yes, I shall stay," he said with abrupt,
almost violent emphasis. Then more quietly, "The country looks--_neat_!
Such neat little fields on either side the line. I should grow
impatient in the country, but London enthrals. I love the dull old
roar, and the smoke, and the misty light of this weak little sun. A man
who has lived long abroad seldom cares for rural England, but he never
loses his love of London. It is the best of its kind--there's something
in that; but the country is tame."
Jean mused, a smile twitching her lips.
"I have always said that if I could choose an exact site for my home of
the future I'd have the front windows facing west over a range of
mountains, the bigger the better--the Himalayas for choice--and the back
windows over Piccadilly! Our tastes agree, it appears; but for pity's
sake don't let our sun hear you speaking in such disrespectful tones.
It is so touchy and difficile that it is capable of sulking and hiding
for weeks together, and we have been paying it such compliments these
last days. `Blazing!' We preferred to stay indoors this afternoon
because it was `blazing.' Soon we shall declare that it is impossible
to stay in town, and shall fly away to the country. In a couple of
weeks London will be emptied of every one who is not chained to a desk."
"Where shall you go?" he asked directly.
Jean glanced at him, and discovered to her surprise that the question
was no idle inquiry put to help in a lagging conversation, but a request
for information seriously desired. She was not offended, but a feminine
impulse prompted her to prevaricate.
"Oh, to the sea, I suppose. I possess two small brothers who insist
upon the sea for their holidays. I suppose you will be going to
Hampshire with the Mortons. The Moat will seem a haven of rest and
green after the East. The gardens are more entrancing than ever. Such
flowers!" She lifted the rose to her face as if reminded of its
presence, stroked her cheek with its velvety petals, and let it drop
into her lap. A heightened voice sounded from the end of the room, and
the quick movement of interest with which she turned to see what was
happening sent the rose spray rolling softly to the ground. She bent
forward to regain it, but Gloucester was quicker than she; he held it
firmly in his big brown hand, not offering a return, but looking down at
it with an expression which Jean found strangely eloquent.
"It is a long time since you have seen English flowers. To an
Englishman nothing can ever be quite so beautiful. You must be glad you
came home in the time of roses!"
The intentionally soft tone of the girl's voice threw into greater
contrast the man's hoarse accents.
"Will you give it to me? May I keep it?"
Jean stared, her delicate brows arched in dignified surprise. Certainly
she would not give a flower which she had been wearing to a perfect
stranger, and that in the presence of three pairs of watching eyes.
This Robert Gloucester was disconcertingly direct, and must be kept in
his place--gently, however, for he had other points in his favour, such
as being young and handsome, and transparently impressed by herself.
"Not this one, I think. It is too faded and tired. I am cruel to
flowers when I wear them. I can't leave them alone. Please take your
choice from any in that bowl. They are all quite fresh!"
She held out her hand, gently imperious, and Gloucester mutely returned
the rose. He could do no less; but his air was so discouraged, so out
of all proportion abashed, that the girl felt a swift remorse. It was
like disappointing an eager child, and watching the shadowing of the
happy face. Now it was not her own wish, but simply the presence of
onlookers which prevented the refusal from being changed into consent.
She laid the recovered flower on the table beside the fragrant bowl of
roses, almost disliking it for having been the cause of this check in
the conversation. Her eyes softened, she smiled into Gloucester's
troubled face with her sweetest, most childlike expression, and prattled
dainty nonsense, unchecked by his lack of response. Presently he began
to smile; it was impossible to resist Jean when she set herself to
charm, but once and again the murmured answers missed the point, and she
was conscious that, though his thoughts were absorbed in herself, he was
paying scant heed to her words. The mysterious nervousness which had
affected her at his first gaze returned to Jean once more in the process
of this one-sided conversation; she turned her head to where the three
ladies were sitting, and met Edith Morton's eyes fixed upon herself with
an intensity of scrutiny which aroused a quick suspicion.
Edith did not care to see her guest monopolised; she was not content to
be banished to the end of the room. Jean smiled and raised her voice,
addressing her directly by name, so as to show her desire for a general
conversation.
"I have been telling Mr Gloucester, Edith, that when I was very good
you used to read me extracts from his letters, and thrill me by
repeating his adventures. They were such nice, full, detaily letters.
I think you would get a prize in a foreign correspondence competition,
Mr Gloucester. Most men write such scrappy notes."
"Ah, I should have been ungrateful if I had done that, for Edith sent me
such splendid letters from home. No one knows how a fellow appreciates
letters when he is abroad--a blank mail is a blighting experience.
Edith has been a brick to me in that way; as good as any sister."
He smiled at the girl as he spoke, and Edith Morton smiled bravely back.
Gloucester saw nothing strained or unnatural in that smile, but the
three women divined its secret with lightning intuition. Poor Edith who
had watched and waited all these years, counting each day as it passed,
enduring a grey present in the hope of a golden future which would
surely begin when the Prince returned to his own. And now her long wish
was fulfilled--her hero was restored to her side, not unconscious of her
care, but full of gratitude and affection. He smiled at her with kindly
eyes, he paid her public thanks, he compared her to a sister, and
Edith's heart cramped with despair.
She was a tall, slight girl, with dark hair, a dull complexion, and
pretty eyes. She dressed tastefully, though without style, and spoke
with a delightfully clear, musical intonation. When addressed she had a
trick of drooping her head, which gave her a somewhat timid and
shrinking air, and her hands were small and white. Women admired and
loved her, and constantly asked of each other, "Why is she not married?"
Men passed her by as if unconscious of her presence. The mysterious
quality which attracts masculine approval was lacking in her case, and
until the present she had not regretted its absence.
The while Gloucester continued an easy flow of conversation, the same
thought passed through the mind of each feminine hearer. If Edith
wished to appropriate this man for herself, why had she so hastened to
bring him into the temptation of Jean Goring's presence? Jean, with her
characteristic impulsiveness made a dozen impossible resolutions to keep
out of Robert's path; to be cold to him, to refuse to speak. Vanna
sighed over the hardness of fate which ever advances to its festivals
over the corpses of the slain. Mrs Goring, with tightened lips,
sneered at the blindness of men whose vision was blinded by a pretty
face. Edith, with a sad pride, told herself that above all things
sincerity was the most precious, and that if Gloucester were to be hers,
it must be of his own unbiased will. If he loved her--if he were even
beginning to love her--Jean's beauty would leave him untouched. Every
day one beheld ordinary-looking women wooed by men who had passed by
others infinitely more favoured, to seek them out. Beauty meant much,
but it was not all. The mystic tie of affinity in no way depended on
its presence. Robert and Jean were bound to meet during the next few
weeks; her own influence should be used to make those meetings more
frequent, rather than less. She would condescend to no scheming to
attain what was worth having only if it came as a free-will gift.
When she spoke again it was to invite Jean and her friend to dinner the
next evening.
"We are expecting some of Robert's old friends, and we need you two
girls to balance numbers. You must come!"
Jean hesitated. She had just decided to refuse all invitations; but
this was put in the light of a favour, which it would seem discourteous
to refuse. Besides, Vanna had seemed interested in Robert Gloucester.
She must consider poor, dear Vanna!
"You are sure you want us? Really? It seems so soon to come again. If
any of the men drop out, be sure to let us know. We shall quite
understand," she replied, assuaging her conscience with this loophole of
escape, and Edith rose to say good-bye, smiling another difficult smile.
It was Jean's usual custom to accompany her friend downstairs at the end
of each visit, linking arms, and standing long in the hall as one item
of news after another presented itself for discussion; but to-day she
rang the bell for a maid, and made her adieux at the drawing-room door;
the most careless and perfunctory of adieux to the man, to the girl a
kiss, and an eloquent grip of the hand. Edith was her friend, a friend
of years' standing; and Jean, for all her flirtatious nature, was loyal
to her sex. The last thing she would wish to do would be to annex
another girl's lover. Nevertheless it was with a sigh and an unusual
sense of depression that she re-entered the drawing-room. Vanna was
standing by the sofa in the corner, looking down on the carved oak
table. Jean's eyes followed hers, and her heart gave a sudden,
startling leap. The bowl of roses was untouched, but the table was
bare, the faded bud had disappeared!