Meanwhile, down on the lawn, Drusilla and Ashley were talking things
over from their own points of view. There had been a second of
embarrassment when they were first left alone, which Drusilla got over
by pointing with her parasol to an indistinguishable spot in the stretch
of tree-tops, spires, and gables sloping from the gate, saying:
"That's our house--the one with the little white cupola."
He made no pretense to listen or to look. "She says she doesn't want to
marry me."
He made the statement dispassionately, as though laying down a subject
for academic discussion.
It was some little time before she could think what to say.
"Well, that doesn't surprise me," she risked at last.
"Doesn't surprise you?"
She shook her head. "On the contrary, I should be very much astonished
if she did--now. I should be astonished at any woman in her position
wanting to marry a man in yours."
"I don't care a hang for my position."
"Oh yes, you do. And even if you didn't, it wouldn't matter. It's
naturally a case in which you and she have to see from different angles.
With you it's a point of honor to stand by her; with her it's the same
thing not to let you."
"In honor it's the positive, not the negative, that takes precedence,
and the positive happens to be mine."
"I don't think you can argue that way, you know. What takes precedence
of everything else is--common sense."
"And do you mean to say that common sense requires that she shall give
me up?"
"I shouldn't go so far as to assert that. But I shouldn't mind saying
that if she did give you up there'd be a lot of common sense in her
doing it."
"On whose account? Mine?"
"Yes; and hers. Perhaps chiefly on hers. You can hardly realize the
number of things she has to take care of--and you'd be one more."
"I confess I don't seize your drift."
"It's not very abstruse, however. Just think. It isn't as if Cousin
Henry had fallen ill, or had died, or had gone to pieces in any of the
ordinary ways. Except for his own discomfort, he might just as well have
been tried and sentenced and sent to prison. He's been as good as there.
Every one knows it's only a special providence that he didn't go. But if
he's escaped that by the skin of his teeth, he hasn't escaped a lot of
other things. He hasn't escaped being without a penny in the world. He
hasn't escaped having his house sold over his head and being turned out
into the streets. He hasn't escaped reaching a perfectly impotent old
age, with not a soul on this earth to turn to but Olivia."
"What about me?"
"Would _you_ take him?"
"I shouldn't _take_ him exactly. If he was my father-in-law"--he made a
little grimace--"I suppose I could pension him off somewhere, or board
him out, like an old horse. One couldn't have him round."
"H'm! I dare say that would do--but I doubt it. If you'd ever been a
daughter you might feel that you couldn't dispose of a poor, old,
broken-down father quite so easily. After all, he's not a horse. You
might more or less forsake him when all was going well, and yet want to
stick to him through thick and thin if he came a cropper. Look at me! I
go off and leave my poor old dad for a year and more at a time--because
he's a saint; but if he wasn't--especially if he'd got into any such
scrape as Cousin Henry's--which isn't thinkable--but if he did--I'd
never leave him again. That's my temperament. It's every girl's
temperament. It's Olivia's. But all that is neither here nor there. If
she married you, her whole life would be given up to trying to make you
blend with a set of circumstances you couldn't possibly blend with. It
would be worse than singing one tune to an orchestra playing another.
She'd go mad with the attempt."
"Possibly; except for one factor which you've overlooked."
"Oh, love! Yes, yes. I thought you'd say that." Drusilla tossed her
hands impatiently. "Love will do a lot, but it won't do everything. You
can't count on it to work miracles in a sophisticated company like the
Sussex Rangers. They've passed the age of faith for that sort of thing."
"I don't see," he said, speaking very slowly, "that the Rangers need be
altogether taken into consideration."
She looked at him fixedly. "Do you mean that you'd--send in your
papers?"
"Only in the sense that if my wife wasn't happy in the Service we could
get out of it."
"Then you're really so much in love that you'd be willing to throw up
everything on account of it?" There was some incredulity in her tone, to
which, however, he offered no objection.
"Willing or unwilling isn't to the point. Surely you see that as far as
public opinion goes I'm dished either way. The more I think of it the
plainer it becomes. If I marry Olivia I let myself in for connection
with a low-down scandal; if I don't, then they'll say I left her in the
lurch. As for the effect on any possible promotion there might be in
store for me, it would be six of one and half a dozen of the other. If I
married her, and there was something good to be had, and old
Bannockburn, let us say, was at the Horse Guards, then Lady Ban wouldn't
have Olivia; and if I didn't marry her, and there was the same situation
with old Englemere in command, then he wouldn't have me. There it is in
a nutshell--simply nothing to choose."
They proceeded to stroll aimlessly up and down the lawn.
"I can quite see how it looks from your point of view--" she began.
"No, you can't," he interrupted, sharply, "because you leave out the
fact that I am--I don't mind saying it--that is, to you--you've been
such a good pal to me!--I shall never forget it!--but I _am_--head over
heels--desperately--in love."
Having already heard this confession in what now seemed the far-off days
in Southsea, she could hear it again with no more than a sense of
oppression about the heart.
"Yes," she smiled, bravely. "I know you are. And between two ills you
choose the one that has some compensation attached to it."
"Between two ills," he corrected, "I'm choosing the only course open to
a man of honor. Isn't that it?"
There was a wistful inflection on the query. It put forth at one and the
same time a request for corroboration and a challenge to a contrary
opinion. If there could be no contrary opinion, he would have been glad
of some sign of approval or applause. He wanted to be modest; and yet it
was a stimulus to doing precisely the right thing to get a little praise
for it, especially from a woman like Drusilla.
In this for once she disappointed him. "Of course you are," she
assented, even too promptly.
"And yet you're advising me," he said, returning to the charge, "to make
a bolt for it--and leave Olivia to shift for herself."
"If I remember rightly, the question you raised was not about you, but
about her. It wasn't as to whether you should marry her, but as to
whether she should marry you. I'm not disputing your point of view; I'm
only defending Olivia's. I can see three good reasons why you should
keep your word to her--"
"Indeed? And what are they?"
She told them off on her fingers. "First, as you can't do anything else.
Second--"
"Your first reason," he interrupted, hastily, as though he feared she
suspected him of not being convinced of it, "covers the whole ground. We
don't need the rest."
"Still," she insisted, "we might as well have them. Second, it's the
more prudent of two rather disadvantageous courses. Third--to quote your
own words--you're head over heels in love with her. It's easy to see
that now, and now another of these reasons is uppermost in your mind;
but it's also easy to see that none of them makes a conclusive appeal to
Olivia Guion. That's the point."
"The point is that I'm in love with her, and--if it's not claiming too
much--she with me. We've nothing else to consider."
"You haven't. She has. She has all the things I've just hinted at--and
ever so many more; besides which," she added, taking a detached, casual
tone, "I suppose she has to make up her mind one way or another as to
what she's going to do about Peter Davenant."
The crow's-foot wrinkles about his eyes deepened to a frown of inquiry.
"About Peter--who?"
Drusilla still affected a casual tone. "Oh? Hasn't she told you about
_him?_"
"Not a word. Who is he?"
She nodded in the direction of the house. "He's up-stairs with Cousin
Henry."
"The big fellow who was here just now? That--lumpkin?"
"Yes," she said, dryly, "that--lumpkin. It was he who gave Cousin Henry
the money to meet his liabilities."
"So he's the Fairy Prince? He certainly doesn't look it."
"No; he doesn't look it; but he's as much of a problem to Olivia as if
he did."
"Why? What has he to do with her?"
"Nothing, except that I suppose she must feel very grateful."
They reached the edge of the lawn where a hedge of dahlias separated
them from the neighboring garden.
"When you say that," he asked, "do you mean anything in particular?"
"I suppose I mean everything in particular. The situation is one in
which all the details count."
"And the bearing of this special detail--"
"Oh, don't try to make me explain that. In the first place, I don't
know; and in the second, I shouldn't tell you if I did. I'm merely
giving you the facts. I think you're entitled to know _them_."
"So I should have said. Are there many more? I've had a lot since I
landed. I thought I must have heard pretty well all there was--"
"Probably you had, except just that. I imagine Olivia found it
difficult to speak of, and so I'm doing it for her."
"Why should she find it difficult to speak of? It's a mere matter of
business, I suppose."
"If it's business to give Cousin Henry what would be nearly a hundred
thousand pounds in English money, with no prospect that any one can see
of his ever getting it back--that is, not unless old Madame de
Melcourt--"
"Oh, I say! Then he's one of your beastly millionaires, by Jove!--grind
the noses off the poor, and that sort of thing, to play
Haroun-al-Raschid with the cash."
"Not in the least. He never ground the nose off any one; and as for
being a millionaire, father says that what he's done for Cousin Henry
will pretty well clean him out."
"All the same, he's probably done it with a jolly sharp eye to the main
chance."
"Oh, I dare say his motives weren't altogether altruistic. Only it's a
little difficult to see where the main chance comes in."
"Then what the deuce is he up to?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. I repeat that I'm only giving you the
facts. You must interpret them for yourself."
He looked thoughtful. Drusilla plucked a scarlet dahlia and fastened it
in her dress, after which they strolled back slowly to the middle of the
lawn. Here Ashley said:
"Has all this got anything to do with Olivia? I wish you wouldn't make
mysteries."
"I'm not making mysteries. I'm telling you what's happened just as it
occurred. He advanced the money to Cousin Henry, and that's all I know
about it. If I draw any inferences--"
"Well?"
"I'm just as likely to be wrong as right."
"Then you _have_ drawn inferences?"
"Who wouldn't? I should think you'd be drawing them yourself."
They wandered on a few yards, when he stopped again. "Look here," he
said, with a sort of appealing roughness, "you're quite straight with
me, aren't you?"
The rich, surging color came swiftly into her face, as wine seen through
something dark and transparent. Her black eyes shone like jet. She would
have looked tragic had it not been for her fixed, steady smile.
"Have I ever been anything else with you?"
"No. You've been straight as a die. I'll say that for you. You've been a
good pal--a devilish good pal! But over here--in America--everything
seems to go by enigmas--and puzzles--and surprises--"
"I'll explain what I can to you," she said, with a heightened color,
"but it won't be so very easy. There are lots of people who, feeling as
I do--toward Olivia--and--and toward you--would want to beat about the
bush. But when all these things began to happen--and you were already on
the way--I turned everything over in my mind and decided to speak
exactly as I think."
"Good!"
"But it isn't so very easy," she repeated, pretending to rearrange the
dahlia in her laces, so as to find a pretext for not looking him in the
eyes. "It isn't so very easy; and if--later on--in after years
perhaps--when everything is long over--it ever strikes you that I didn't
play fair--it'll be because I played _so_ fair that I laid myself open
to that imputation. One can, you know. I only ask you to remember it.
That's all."
Ashley was bewildered. He could follow little more than half of what she
said. "More mysteries," he was sighing to himself as she spoke. "And
such a color! That's her strong point. Pity it only comes by fits and
flashes. But, good Lord, what a country! Always something queer and
new."
"Good-by," she said, offering her hand before he had time to emerge from
his meditations. "We shall see you to-morrow evening. And, by the way,
we dine at half-past seven. We're country people here, and primitive.
No; don't come to the gate. Olivia must be wondering where you are."
He looked after her as she tripped over the lawn toward the roadway,
still holding her long-handled, beribboned, eighteenth-century sunshade
with the daintiness of a Watteau shepherdess holding a crook.
"She's a good 'un," he said to himself. "Straight as a die, she is--and
true as steel."
None the less he was glad when she left him.