The Girl Who Was Indifferent
A heavy weight lay on Jack Beardmore’s mind as he walked slowly
across the meadows that morning. His feet carried him instinctively in
the direction of the little valley which lay a mile from the house,
and in the exact centre of which ran the hedge which marked the
division between the Beardmore and Froyant estates. It was a glorious
morning. The storm of wind and rain which had swept the country the
night before had blown itself out, and the world lay bathed in yellow
sunlight. Far away, beyond the olive-green coverts that crowned Penton
Hill, he caught a glimpse of Harvey Froyant’s big white mansion. Would
she venture out with the ground so sodden and the grasses soaked with
rain, he wondered?
He stopped by a big elm tree on the lip of the valley and cast an
anxious glance along the untidy hedge, until his eyes rested on a tiny
summer house which the former owners of Tower House had
erected--Harvey Froyant, who loathed solitude, would never have been
guilty of such extravagance.
There was nobody in sight, and his heart sank. Ten minutes’ walking
brought him to the gap he had made in the fence, and he stepped
through. The girl who sat in the tiny house might have heard his sigh
of relief.
She looked round, then rose with some evidence of reluctance.
She was remarkably pretty, with her fair hair and flawless skin, but
there was no welcome in her eyes as she came slowly toward him.
“Good morning,” she said coolly.
“Good morning, Thalia,” he ventured, and her frown returned.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, and he knew that she meant what she
said. Her attitude toward him puzzled and worried him. For she was a
thing of laughter and bubbling life. He had once surprised her chasing
a hare, and had watched, spellbound, the figure of this laughing Diana
as her little feet flew across the field in pursuit of the scared
beast. He had heard her singing, too, and the very joy of life was
vibrant in her voice--but he had seen her so depressed and gloomy that
he had feared she was ill.
“Why are you always so stiff and formal with me?” he grumbled.
For a second a ghost of a smile showed at the corner of her mouth.
“Because I’ve read books,” she said solemnly, “and poor girl
secretaries who aren’t stiff and formal with millionaire’s sons
usually come to a bad end!”
She had a trick of directness which was very disconcerting.
“Besides,” she said, “there is no reason why I shouldn’t be stiff and
formal. It is the conventional attitude which people adopt toward
their fellow creatures, unless they are very fond of them, and I’m not
very fond of you.”
She said this calmly and deliberately, and the young man’s face went
red. He felt a fool, and cursed himself for provoking this act of
cruelty.
“I will tell you something, Mr. Beardmore,” she went on in her even
tone. “Something which you haven’t realised. When a boy and girl are
thrown together on a desert island, it is only natural that the boy
gets the idea that the girl is the only girl in the world. All his
wayward fancies are concentrated on one woman and as the days pass she
grows more and more wonderful in his eyes. I’ve read a lot of these
desert island stories, and I’ve seen a lot of pictures that deal with
that interesting situation, and that is how it strikes me. You are on
a desert island here--you spend too much time on your estate, and the
only things you see are rabbits and birds and Thalia Drummond. You
should go into the city and into the society of people of your own
station.”
She turned from him with a nod, for she had seen her employer
approaching, had watched him out of the corner of her eye as he
stopped to survey them, and had guessed his annoyance.
“I thought you were doing the house accounts, Miss Drummond,” he said
with asperity.
He was a skinny man, in the early fifties, colourless, sharp-featured,
prematurely bald. He had an unpleasant habit of baring his long yellow
teeth when he asked a question, a grimace which in some curious way
suggested his belief that the answer would be an evasion.
“Morning, Beardmore,” he jerked the salutation grudgingly and turned
again to his secretary.
“I don’t like to see you wasting your time, Miss Drummond,” he said.
“I am not wasting either your time or mine, Mr. Froyant,” she answered
calmly. “I have finished the accounts--here!” She tapped the worn
leather portfolio which was under her arm.
“You could have done the work in my library,” he complained; “there is
no need to go into the wilderness.”
He stopped and rubbed his long nose and glanced from the girl to the
silent young man.
“Very good; that will do,” he said. “I am going to see your father,
Beardmore. Perhaps you will walk with me?”
Thalia was already on her way to Tower House, and Jack had no excuse
for lingering.
“Don’t occupy that girl’s time, Beardmore, don’t, please,” said
Froyant testily. “You’ve no idea how much she has to do--and I’m sure
your father wouldn’t like it.”
Jack was on the point of saying something offensive, but checked
himself. He loathed Harvey Froyant, and at the moment hated him for
his domineering attitude toward the girl.
“That class of girl,” began Mr. Froyant, turning to walk by the side
of the hedge toward the gate at the end of the valley, “that class of
girl----” he stood still and stared. “Who the devil has broken through
the hedge?” he demanded, pointing with his stick.
“I did,” said Jack savagely. “It is our hedge, anyway, and it saves
half a mile--come on, Mr. Froyant.”
Harvey Froyant made no comment as he stepped gingerly through the
hedge.
They walked slowly up the hill toward the big elm tree where Jack had
stood looking down into the valley.
Mr. Harvey Froyant preserved a tight-lipped silence. He was a stickler
for the conventions, where their observations benefited himself.
They had reached the crest of the rise, when suddenly his arm was
gripped, and he turned to see Jack Beardmore, staring at the bole of
the tree. Froyant followed the direction of his eye and took a step
backward, his unhealthy face a shade paler. Painted on the tree trunk
was a rough circle of crimson, and the paint was yet wet.