"Nature has sometimes made a fool."
The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with the
cornet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroom
all to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Such
unearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why they
couldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question that
fills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey down
from Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players of
them disconsolate.
The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms right and left of the
ballroom, but fail to kill the melancholy sweetness of the dripping
fountains or the perfume of the hundred flowers that gave their sleeping
draughts to all those who chose to come and inhale them. Mild draughts
that please the senses without stealing them.
The sounds even penetrate to the library, where Joyce is standing before
the low fire, that even in this July evening burns upon the hearth,
fastening her long gloves. She had got down before the others, and now,
finding the room empty, half wishes herself back again upstairs. But she
is so young, so full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around her,
that she had hurried over her dressing, and, with the first dismal
sounds of the toning, had turned her steps its way.
The library seems cold to her, bare, unfriendly. Had she expected to
meet somebody there before her--somebody who had promised to get a fresh
tie in a hurry, but who had possibly forgotten all about it in the joy
of an after-dinner cigar?
It seems a long time since that first day when she had been startled by
his sudden reappearance at the Court. A long, _long_ time. Soon this
last visit of hers to the Court must come to an end. The Baltimores will
be going abroad in a fortnight or so--and he with them. The summer is
waning--dreary autumn coming. He will go--and----
A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on her, toning down to rather a
too cruel a degree the bright expectancy of her face. He had _said_ he
would come, and now----She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion on
the table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, half
consciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn up
her arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers.
Certainly he had said he would be here. "Early you know. Before the
others can get down." A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and now
that the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo upon
the ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with the
lamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein to
her thoughts.
They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. During the past
week had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning.
He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, had
loitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side,
whispered many things--looked so very many more. But----
There were other times, other opportunities for philandering (_she_ does
not give it this unpleasant name); how has he spent them?--A vague
thought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain,
good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that he
is very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joyce
may reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, often
falls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments during
the past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the scene
of Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has had
a good deal to do with them. But then--"That poor, good girl you know!"
Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit.
"_Such_ a good girl; and so--er--_don't_ you know!" He was certainly
always a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, looking
back on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confess
to herself that the great "er" had had to express everything. Contempt,
dislike, kindly disdain--he was always _kindly_--he made quite a point
of _that_. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after this
retrospective glance, "er" is the greatest word in the English language!
And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggests
a frown. It helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a lame one. It is
kindly, as giving time. It is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It----In
fact what is it it _cannot_ do?
Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. She has placed her hands on
the table behind her, and thus compelled to lean a little forward,
stands studying the carpet without seeing it. A sense of anger, of
_shame_ against herself is troubling her. If he should _not_ be in
earnest! If he should not--like her as she likes him!
She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by some thought. "Like" _is_ the
word. It has gone no deeper yet. It _shall_ not. He is handsome, he has
his charm, but if she is not all the world to him, why, he shall not be
all the world to _her_. If it is money he craves, for the restoration of
that old home of his, why money let it be. But there, shall not be the
two things, the desire of one for filthy lucre, the desire of the other
for love. He shall decide.
She has grown very pale. She has drawn herself up to her full height,
and her lips are pressed together. And now a strange thought comes to
her. If--_if_ she loved him, could she bear thus to analyze him. To take
him to pieces, to dissect him as it were? Once again that feeling of
fear oppresses her. Is she so cold, so deliberate in herself that she
suspects others of coldness. After all--if he does love her--if he only
hesitates because----
_A step outside the door!_
Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the walls
from floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. She
gives a little touch to her gown. And now is sitting in a
lounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respects
the very picture of unconsciousness. It is--it must be----
It isn't, however.
Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion that
generally plays old Harry with the hinges and blows the ornaments off
the nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and the
liveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth,
are of goodly proportions.
"Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He has
been reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously for
the past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphatic
nuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary,
proving as a rule a bore.
"That will do, Dicky! We _all_ know about that," says Miss Kavanagh, who
is a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however,
is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing.
"Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be a
stage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Though _fleshpot of Egypt_!"
He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for the
plaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative.
"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired of
_making_ people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy the
patience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, you
know very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamed
of it."
"_Would_ he? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I can
say is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He _will_
be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produced
a new edition. But for my part, I believe it _is_ in the book.
Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from the
public mind."
"Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word about
them in the book from start to finish."
"No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought.
"Fleshpots--pots--hot pots; hot _potting_! Hah!" He draws himself
together with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing,
and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up,'"
says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuable
addition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own."
"Distinctly your own," with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrown
away upon the receiver of it.
"D'ye say so! By Jove! And very neat too! Didn't think I had it in me.
After all to write a book is an easy matter; here am I, who never
thought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the most
exquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tell
you what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and my
compliments you know. Horrid thing to be _mean_ about anything, and if I
can help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a good
turn. Eh?"
"I suppose you think you are amusing," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him
with a critical eye.
"My good child, I _know_ that expression," says Mr. Browne, amiably. "I
know it by heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. It's politer
now-a-days to look things than to say them, but wait awhile and you'll
_see_. Come; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign that he'll be
delighted with my suggestion, and put it into his next edition without
delay. No charge! Given away! The lot for a penny-three-farthings. In
fact, I make it a present to him. Noble, eh? Give it to him for
_nothing_!"
"About its price," says Miss Kavanagh thoughtfully.
"Think you so? You are dull to-night, Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass you
by without warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that has flowed from my
brain is a priceless one. Never mind the door--he's not coming yet.
Attend to me."
"_Who's_ not coming?" demands she, the more angrily in that she is
growing miserably aware of the brilliant color that is slowly but surely
bedecking her cheeks.
"Never mind! It's a mere detail; attend to _me_ and I entreat you," says
Mr. Browne, who is now quite in his element, having made sure of the
fact that she is expecting somebody. It doesn't matter in the least who
to Mr. Browne, expectation is the thing wherein to catch the
embarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forthwith he sets himself gaily to
the teazing of her.
"Attend to _what_?" says she with a little frown.
"If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, with that care that I should
have expected from you, you would have remembered that forty odd years
the Israelites hankered after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which I
have been alluding. Now I appeal to you, as a sensible girl, would
anybody hanker after anything for forty odd years (_very_ odd years as
it happens), unless it was to their advantage to get it; unless, indeed,
the object pursued was _priceless_!"
"You ask too much of _this_ sensible girl," says Miss Kavanagh, with a
carefully manufactured yawn. "Really, dear Dicky, you must forgive me if
I say I haven't gone into it as yet, and that I don't suppose I shall
ever _see_ the necessity for going into it."
"But, my good child, you must see that those respectable people, the
Israelites, wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for forty years."
"That's just what I _don't_ see. There are such a number of fools
everywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell."
"This is evasion," says Mr. Browne sternly. "To bring you face to face
with facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do you
dare to doubt for one moment that I speak aught but the truth? Will you
deny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the----"
"Ha--ha--ha," laughs Joyce ironically. "I wish she could hear you. Your
life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase."
"Mere slip. Serpent of _old_ Nile. Doesn't matter in the least," says
Mr. Browne airily, "because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My dear
girl, follow out the argument. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was a
fleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And--you're another."
"Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me."
"Where does the slang come in? You're another fleshpot. I meant to
say--or convey--because _we_ all hanker after you."
"Do you?" with rising wrath. "May I ask what hankering means?"
"You had better not," says Mr. Browne mysteriously. "It was one of the
rites of Ancient Kem!"
"Now there is _one_ thing, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boiling
over. "I won't be called names. I won't be called a _fleshpot_. You'll
draw the line there if you please."
"My dear girl, why not? Those delectable pots must have been
_bric-à-brac_ of the most _recherché_ description. Of a most delicate
shape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up--not to
be hoped for in these prosaic days."
"Nonsense," indignantly. She is fairly roused now, and Mr. Browne
regarding her with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to have his
reward at last. "You know very well that the term 'fleshpots' referred
to what was _in_ the pots, not to the pots themselves."
"That's all you know about it. That's where your fatal ignorance comes
in, my poor Joyce," says he, with immense compassion. "Search your Bible
from cover to cover, and I defy you to find a single mention of the
contents of those valuable bits of _bric-à-brac_. Of flesh_pots_--heavy
emphasis on the _pots_--and ten fingers down at once if you please--we
read continually as being hankered after by the Israelites, who then, as
now, were evidently avid collectors."
"You've been having champagne, Dicky," says Miss Kavanagh, regarding him
with a judicial eye.
"So have you. But I can't see what that excellent beverage has got to do
with the ancient Jews. Keep to the point. Did you ever hear that they
expressed a longing for the _flesh_ of Egypt? No. So far so good. The
pots themselves were the objects of their admiration. During that
remarkable run of theirs through the howling wilderness they, one and
all, to a _man_, betrayed the true æsthetic tendency. They raved
incessantly for the girl--I beg pardon--the _land_ they had left behind
them. The land that contained those priceless jars."
"I wonder how you can be so silly," says Miss Kavanagh disdainfully.
Will he _never_ go away! If he stays, and if--the other--comes----
"Silly! my good child. _How_ silly! Why everything goes to prove the
probability of my statement. The taste for articles of _vertu_--for
antiquities--for fossils of all descriptions that characterized them
then, has lived to the present day. _Then_ they worried after old china,
and who shall deny that now they have an overwhelming affection for old
clo'."
"Well; your folly doesn't concern me," says Miss Kavanagh, gathering up
her skirts with an evident intention of shaking off the dust of his
presence from her feet and quitting him.
"I am sorry that you should consider it folly," says Mr. Browne
sorrowfully. "I should not have said so much about it perhaps but that I
wanted to prove to you that in calling _you_ a fleshpot I only meant
to----"
"I won't be called that," interrupts Miss Kavanagh angrily. "It's
_horrid_! It makes me feel quite _fat_! Now, once for all, Dicky, I
forbid it. I won't have it."
"I don't see how you are to get out of it," says Mr. Browne, shaking his
head and hands in wild deprecation. "Fleshpots were desirable
articles--you're another--ergo--you're a fleshpot. See the argument?"
"No I don't," indignantly. "I see only you--and--I wish I _didn't_."
"Very rude; _very_!" says Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Yet I entreat thee
not to leave me without one other word. Follow up the argument--_do_.
Give me an answer to it."
"Not one," walking to the door.
"That's because it is unanswerable," says Mr. Browne complacently. "You
are beaten, you----"
There is a sound outside the door; Joyce with her hand on the handle of
it, steps back and looks round nervously at Dicky. A quick color has
dyed her cheeks; instinctively she moves a little to one side and gives
a rapid glance into a long mirror.
"I don't think really he could find a fault," says Mr. Browne
mischievously. "I should think there will be a good deal of hankering
going on to-night."
Miss Kavanagh has only just barely time to wither him, when Beauclerk
comes hurriedly in.