‘As long as men do silent go,
Nor faults nor merits can we know;
Yet deem not every still place empty:
A tiger may be met with so.’
Friday has dawned, and is as delightful a day as ever any miserable
out-of-door entertainer can desire; and Miss Barry, in spite of her
tremors, and her fears for the success of this, her first big
adventurous party, feels a certain sense of elation. Yes, to-day she is
going to entertain all the party at the Park; yesterday the Park had
entertained all her young people. The good soul (so good in spite of her
temper and her peculiarities) has felt deep joy in the thought that the
children had been not only invited, but actually sought after, by all
those fashionable folk up there, and though she would have died rather
than boast of it to her neighbours, being too well-born for boasting of
that kind, still, her own heart swells with pride at the thought that,
in spite of their poverty, the children’s birth has asserted itself, and
carried them through all difficulties to the society where they should
be.
So happy has she been in her unselfish gladness, that she has forgotten
to scold one of them for quite ten hours. And now Friday, the day of her
coming triumph, has arrived, and she has risen almost with the sun that
has brought it. There is so much to be done, you see: the best
table-cloths to be brought out, and the old Queen Anne teapot to get a
last rub, and all the cakes to be made! There will be plenty of time for
the baking of them before five o’clock, at which hour Lady Forster has
arranged to come with all her guests.
Susan and Betty have been busy with the drawing-room—one of the smallest
rooms on record; a fact, however, made up for lavishly by the size of
the furniture, which would not disgrace a salon. It is now, to confess
the truth, in the sere and yellow stage, and some of the chairs have
legs that are distinctly wobbly, and by no means to be depended upon.
‘Hurry up, Susan!’ says Betty. ‘The room will do very well now,
especially as no one will come into it. They are sure to stay in the
garden this lovely evening. Come and see about the flowers for the
table.’
‘Oh, look at that screen!’ cries Susan; and indeed, as a fact, it is
upside down.
‘Never mind! Come on,’ says Betty impatiently, dragging her away. ‘Even
if it is the wrong way up it doesn’t matter. It looks twice as Japanesey
that way. I wonder if the boys have brought the fruit yet?’
When first Dominick had heard of Miss Barry’s intention of giving a
party for the Park people, he had decided that at all risks it should be
a success. But his quarter’s allowance was, as usual (he had received it
only a month ago), at death’s door, and only thirty shillings remained
of it. He had at once written to his guardian saying circumstances over
which he had no control—I suppose he meant his inability to refrain from
buying everything his eye lit on—had made away with the sum sent last
June, and he would feel immensely obliged to Sir Spencer if he could let
him have a few pounds more, or even give him an advance on his next
allowance. The answer had come this morning, had been opened hurriedly,
but, alas! had contained, instead of the modest cheque asked for, a
distinct and uncompromising ‘No.’
‘Mean old brute!’ said Dom indignantly, referring, I regret to say, to
his uncle. ‘I wrote to him for a bare fiver, and the old beast refuses
to part. Never mind, Susan! We’ll have our spread just the same. I’ve
thirty shillings to the good still, and that’ll get us all we want.’
‘No, indeed, Dom,’ said Susan, flushing. ‘You mustn’t spend your last
penny like that. We’ll do very well as we are, with auntie’s cakes.’
‘We must have fruit,’ said Mr. Fitzgerald with determination. ‘Do you
remember all those grapes yesterday, and the late peaches and things?’
Indeed they had had a most heavenly day yesterday—a distinctly
rollicking day—in the woods, and had played hide and seek afterwards
amongst the shrubberies, at which noble game Lady Forster and Miss
Forbes had quite distinguished themselves, the latter beating Dom all to
nothing in the dodging line, and reaching the goal every time without
being caught. It had been altogether a splendid romp, and the Barrys had
come home flushed and happy, and with so much to tell their aunt that
their words tumbled over each other, and were hard to put together in
any consecutive way. I think Aunt Jemima was a little shocked when Betty
told her that Lady Forster had called Carew ‘a rowdy-dowdy boy,’ but she
fortified herself with the thought that no doubt the world had changed a
good deal since she was a girl—as no doubt it had. Any way, the children
were delighted, and Dominick felt that nothing they could do for the
Park people, and especially for that jolly Miss Forbes, could be good
enough.
‘We must have some grapes,’ said he, ‘and even if it is to be my last
penny, Susan, I am sure I can depend on you to patch up my old breeches
so as to carry me with decency, if not with elegance, through the next
two months.’
‘But, Dom—I really don’t think you should——’
‘Never mind her,’ Betty had said promptly here—Betty, who is devoid of
any sort of false shame, and looks upon Dom as a possession; ‘of course
we must have fruit.’
‘And those little cakes at Ricketty’s, with chocolate on them. Put on
your hat, Betty, and come down town with me, and we’ll astonish the
natives yet!’
But Betty had too much to do, and finally Carew had gone off with Dom on
a foraging quest, and now, as the girls come out of the drawing-room,
they meet the two boys ‘laden with golden grain,’ like the _Argosy_, and
eager to display their purchases.
Such grapes! Such dear sweet little cakes! They are all enchanted; and
soon the table, delicately laid out in a corner of the queer, pretty old
garden, is a sight to behold! And beyond lies the tennis-court—one only,
but so beautifully mown and rolled, looking like the priest of famous
history, all ‘shaven and shorn.’
* * * * *
‘Didn’t I tell you it was a perfect old garden?’ Lady Forster is saying,
addressing Lady Muriel, who is laughing, quite immensely for her, at one
of Carew’s boyish jokes. Lady Forster is dressed in one of her smartest
gowns—a mere trifle, perhaps, but done to please, and therefore a
charming deed. And all her guests, incited by her, no doubt, have donned
their prettiest frocks, so that Miss Barry’s garden at this moment
presents a picture more suggestive of a garden-party at Twickenham than
a quiet tea in the grounds of an old Irish rectory.
‘It is too pretty for anything,’ says Lady Muriel. ‘I wouldn’t have
missed it for a good deal. I think it was very kind of your aunt, Mr.——’
‘Carew!’ says he quickly.
‘May I? What a charming name! It was very kind of your aunt,
Carew’—smiling—‘to ask us here.’
‘It is very kind of you to come,’ says Carew.
‘Do you run over to town?’ asks Lady Muriel. It has occurred to her that
she would like to repay this pretty kindness of Miss Barry’s.
‘Oh no’—shaking his handsome head. And then frankly, ‘We are too poor
for that.’
‘Ah! your sister ought to come,’ says she, after which she grows
thoughtful.
Crosby glances quickly at her. He has heard that last remark of hers,
and somehow resents it. Susan—in London!
He had taken his cup of tea from Miss Barry a little while ago, and
carried it to where Susan is sitting, throwing himself on the grass at
her feet, his cup beside him. Lady Muriel’s words grate on him. He looks
up now at the pure profile beside him, and wonders what would be the
result of starting Susan as a debutante in town under good auspices.
What?
‘You are thinking,’ says Susan softly, breaking into his reverie gently.
‘Yes, I was thinking.’ He looks up at her. ‘If I said of you, would you
believe me?’
‘Not a bit’—gaily. ‘Anyone would say that.’
‘Would they?’ His regard grows even more pronounced. How many have said
that to her? How, indeed, could anyone refrain from saying it? And—he
draws his breath a little quickly here, as conviction forces itself on
him—and everyone with truth! ‘Susan, this is disgraceful!’ says he
carelessly. ‘You must have had a long list of flirtations to speak like
that.’
Susan laughs merrily. She is in high spirits. All is going so well, and
even Lady Millbank has praised the tea-cakes—Lady Millbank, who never
praises anything! But to-day Lady Millbank has changed her tune. Perhaps
no one had been so astonished as she, to see all the Park people here
to-day in this quiet old garden. She had been asked to meet them, of
course, being a friend and distant relation of the Rector’s; but she had
dreamed of seeing only Lady Forster, for half an hour or so, as a
concession to her brother’s parish priest, and now—now—here they all
are! All these smart people, who had refused to go to her only the day
before yesterday! Now, horrid snob that she is, she goes quite out of
her way to be nice to the Barrys.
‘A disgraceful list, indeed!’ says Susan, laughing down into Crosby’s
eyes. Oh, what pretty eyes hers are!
‘You acknowledge it, then?’
‘Certainly. It is a list so bare that one must be ashamed of it. Not
even one name!’
‘What about James, the redoubtable?’
‘Oh, if you are going to be stupid!’ says she; and, rising with a pretty
show of scorn, she leaves him. It is not entirely her scorn of him,
however, that leads her to this drastic step; it is an appealing glance
from Betty, who is sitting near her aunt, looking perplexed in the
extreme. There is cause for perplexity. Next to Miss Barry sits the
poet! Unfortunately Miss Barry has heard a great deal about this young
man and all his works, and plainly considers it her duty to live up to
him, if possible, during his visit to the Rectory. She has now put on
quite a literary air and her best spectacles, and is holding forth on
literature generally, with a view to impressing him. She succeeds beyond
her expectations. The great Jones, who is reclining beside her in an
artistic attitude, becomes by degrees smitten into stone, so great, so
wondrously surprising, are some of her utterances. Through all his
astonishment, however, he holds on to the artistic pose. Having struck
it with the intention of conquering Susan, he refuses to alter it until,
at all events, she has had a good look. It may be a long time, poor
girl! before she will get the chance of seeing anything like it again.
‘What’s the matter with his leg?’ asks Dom, who has just come up, in a
whisper to Betty. ‘It’s got turned round, hasn’t it?’
‘It looks broken,’ says Betty. ‘But it’s all right. It’s a way he has
with it. For goodness’ sake, Dom, stop auntie, if you can.’
But auntie is enjoying herself tremendously, and now, seeing her
audience greatly increased, and the poet evidently much struck, her
voice rises higher, and she beams on all around her.
‘My two favourite authors,’ she is now saying, ‘are—and I’m sure you
will agree with me, dear Lady Forster, and you too, Mr. Jones: your
opinion’—with alarming flattery—‘is indeed important—my two favourite
authors are dear Wilkie Trollope and Anthony Collins!’
Great sensation! Naturally everyone is impressed by this startling
declaration, and Miss Forbes is actually overcome. At all events, she
subsides behind her parasol, and is for a little time lost in thought.
‘Yes, yes. Charming people—charming!’ says Lady Forster quickly, if a
little hysterically; and the poet, having seen Susan’s eye upon him and
his pose, and feeling that he has not endured the last half-hour in
vain, struggles into a more every-day attitude. Pins and needles,
however, having set in in the most _posé_ of the legs, he is conscious
of a good deal of unpleasantness, and at last a desire to get up.
Essaying to rise, however, it distinctly declines to support him, and,
to his everlasting chagrin, he falls ‘plop’ upon the ground again, in a
painfully inartistic position this time.
‘Anything wrong, old man? Got a cramp?’ asks Captain Lennox, hauling him
into sitting posture.
‘It is nothing, nothing,’ says the poet sadly. Oh, what it is to dwell
in the tents of the Philistines! ‘I was merely overcome by the beauty of
this divine spot.’ He gives a sickly glance at Susan. ‘Such tones, you
know! Such colour! Such a satisfying atmosphere!’
Here Susan, who is under the impression that he is ill, brings him
hurriedly a cup of coffee, which he takes, pressing her hand, and
murmuring to her inaudible, but no doubt very ‘precious,’ things.
‘One yearns over the beautiful always,’ says he. It is plain to everyone
that he is yearning over Susan, and Crosby, looking on, feels a sudden
mad longing to kick him over the laurel hedge on to the road below. ‘And
such a spot as this wakes all one’s dreams into life. Those trees! Those
distant glimpses! The little soft throbs of Nature—Mother Nature! All,
all can be felt!’
‘I wish to heaven I could make him feel something!’ says Sir William in
a low but moving tone.
‘And there—over there; see those green glimpses, the parting of the
leaves.’
‘Oh, go on, go on,’ says Miss Barry, growing tearful behind her glasses.
‘This is indeed beautiful!’
‘Dear lady, you feel it too! There’—pointing to where the Cottage trees
seem to become one with those of the Rectory—at which Wyndham starts
slightly, ‘one can see the delicate blendings of Nature’s sweetest
tints, and can fancy that from between those pleasant leaves a face
might once again, as in the old, sweet phantasies, peep forth. This dear
place looks as if Hamadryads had not yet died from out the world: as if
still they might be found inhabitating these lovely ways. Almost it
seems to me as if their divine faces might even now be seen, peeping
through those perfumed greeneries beyond.’