coloured over his admission and cast down his eyes; he should have
looked youthful and ingenuous, but he did not. A very expressive mouth
had Lal; the underlip was remarkably firm, pure, decisive; tenacity
and independence controlled its curves. One might expect to find
originality in his theory of life, anachronisms in his creed, possibly
asceticism, certainly unworldliness: in fact, all those queer ideas
whose existence Angela unhappily suspected. So much may be read in a
momentary twist of the lips. Chivalry here in the twentieth century!
Bernard looked on woman as an inferior animal, Lucian as a comrade,
Farquhar as slave or sultana by turns: Dolly’s observations and
reflections were summed up in the involuntary remark:
“Mr. Laurenson, how very odd you are!”
XIII
THE FIRST DROPS OF THE THUNDER-SHOWER
“_O Medjé, who with thy smiling
Hast enchained my heart, once free_—”
Gounod, whose sweet and sensuous church music has something of the
quality of _good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke_, has written
some acceptable love-songs; such at least was Lucian’s opinion. Aided
by the night’s stillness and the seductive influence of the stream
which cradled their boat, Noel Farquhar’s fine dramatic voice rang up
the valley to the hotel, half a mile away. The twangs and pangs of
Lucian’s banjo did not travel so far. Farquhar had a powerful voice,
thoroughly well trained; he did not tremble in sentimental passion and
murder time in the name of liberty, nor yet did he alternately spue out
his words and gobble them down. And he had fire; he could sing the very
heart out of a song. His native taste in music he usually sacrificed
to the general good; he would sing “The Lost Chord” and “The Holy
City” and “Beauty’s Eyes,” and other favourites, to please young ladies
such as Angela Laurenson and elderly gentlemen who like a little music
after dinner. But Lucian laid a taboo on these; he offered Farquhar the
choice between what he called gamey music (meaning the glorious modern
discords which we all delight to honour in the abstract) and ditties of
the Bank Holiday school, with a chorus in which he expressed his desire
to join. Whereupon Farquhar hurriedly embarked upon “Medjé.”
It was a clear night of summer, still and starry. The stream’s dark
glass was filmed with silver mist which wavered and rose and receded as
if it were the visible vesture of the wind; the smooth hills, spreading
dark wings over the valley, breathed peace. For sounds they had the
tinkle of the orchard runnel and the deep breaths of cows wrenching
the dewy grass; and for scents the night perfume of the water and of
the woods, as well as the sweeter individual smells of flowers: flaxen
meadow-sweet, wild mint blowing purple among the reeds, and clover in
the meadow-grasses.
“A summer night like this is the best imitation of Paradise this side
of the Golden Gates,” said Lucian, leaning down to watch the ripples
parting silver-rimmed beneath the prow.
“I’d not give a cent to get into Paradise.”
“You won’t be asked, sonny.”
“There you’re right, for there’s no such place.”
“Your views on eschatology, my friend, appear demned definite.”
“Definite? Finite, don’t you mean?”
Lucian leaned back and folded his arms restfully; he liked nothing
better than to explore the recesses of Farquhar’s character, which were
commonly open only after dark.
“Haven’t you any intimations of immortality from the recollections of
early childhood?” he asked.
“None,” said Farquhar. “Never had. Seventy years of this world’s long
enough for me. I don’t want an eternity to learn to be good in. Another
point: if I believed what you Christians believe, do you think I’d live
as you live? Not much. Act up to your creed; there’s the secret of
happiness.”
“And what’s your creed, then?”
“Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,” said Farquhar, cynically
enjoying his own cynicism.
“And suppose the workings of Causation came and put a stopper on your
eating and drinking? If you were brought to grinding poverty, say, or
got infected with leprosy, or didn’t marry Dolly Fane?”
“There’s always the ultimate remedy,” said Farquhar, with a shrug.
“Which means, being interpreted?”
“Suicide while of unsound mind: I’d take good care it wasn’t called
accidental death. I wonder, now, if they’d give me Christian burial?”
“Not if I was anywhere around, sonny; you may depend on that. So you
seriously contemplate suicide as a possible end of your life?”
“Probable, not possible: I keep my revolver loaded. I’ve had that
before me ever since I remember.”
“Well, I’ll give you the credit of being consistent; only, don’t you
include me among the Christians, for I’m not one. You can put down my
inconsistencies to that if you like. If I’d owned a creed, I believe I
might have stuck to it—tolerably well.”
“You’re sorry you’ve none?”
“Yes,” said Lucian.
“The Almighty doesn’t seem to know His own business very well.”
“Don’t you blaspheme,” said Lucian. “I can’t say I believe that there
is a God, but I know I don’t believe that there isn’t. When little boys
like you are profane, you make me think of some kids I knew, who had
a midnight supper in the church-yard to show they weren’t afraid of
bogies. And it rained, and one got rheumatic fever; that was me,” he
wound up, cheerfully.
Farquhar laughed, and broke off to ask, “Is that any one calling?”
“Who’d look us up at this time of night, ’cept it was the postman?”
“Are you expecting a letter?”
“I had my weekly budget yesterday, and so did you, sonny; don’t be
jealous.”
“I _am_ jealous; I’m confoundedly jealous.”
“What is it you want, boy?”
“To see your letter.”
Lucian was fully alive to the fascination of playing with a tiger; he
pulled out Dolly’s grey envelope and played a tune on the back of it.
“Here it is; what do you want to know?”
“I want to know how she addresses you and signs herself, and what the
substance of it’s like, and how many sheets she sends you.”
“How many does she send you?”
“Curious, too, are you? Exchange, then.”
“Not much. Suppose she called you darling and me only dear?”
“By Heaven, Lucian, I shouldn’t wonder if I murdered you in my sleep
some night!”
“Did you say in your sleep or in mine?” Lucian put in.
“I’d not do it in my senses, for I’ve no wish to be hanged for murder;
but, I tell you, I can’t get the thought of those letters of yours out
of my head. And when the will’s in abeyance the body sometimes works of
itself. You keep your door locked: mind, I’ve warned you.”
“Upon my solemn honour, old Farquhar, you are a savage!” exclaimed
Lucian.
“Take the thing away, then; keep it out of my sight!”
“I guess you’d read it if you found it lying about?”
“You’re right, I should. I’d have opened the envelope yesterday by
the steam of the kettle, only Dolly’d been at the pains to seal it,
confound her!”
Lucian gave him a queer glance. That cynical confession did not
alienate him; for one thing, he knew that it was necessary to make
a large discount upon Farquhar’s revelations of iniquity, and for
another, had it been true to the last word it could not have changed
his feeling. Strong, quiet, and immovable, that lay welded, into his
life; it almost equalled his love for Dolly; it outweighed his love for
himself. He moved to give his letter to Farquhar, but checked his hand
in mid-air; Dolly’s affectionate words might so easily be misconstrued
by a jealous eye. Instead, he plunged the envelope over the side, and
let it float away.
“There goes temptation,” he said, as the chain of bubbles ended.
“There’ll be others to come, though. There _is_ some one calling.”
It was Charlesworth hailing them from the shore; Farquhar took up the
oars and rowed back. The huge figure of the American loomed up against
the twilit sky, quiet as a rock; he never was impatient.
“Way up at the hotel I heard you singing, and I made out you must
be down here, sir; higher up the water’s not deep enough to drown a
kitten,” he said, as Farquhar secured the boat. A stake and a rope were
all that was needed, without bars or locks; theft was unfashionable at
Petit-Fays.
“Nothing wrong, is there?” Farquhar asked.
“I’d not go so far as to say that; but I told you we were running into
some dirt, and it’s come up pretty close.”
“Ah! what’s up, then?”
Charlesworth fell in beside him and told his tale. The path was narrow,
the grass dewy, and the American had shown pretty plainly that he took
his orders from one master only. Lucian dropped behind and meekly held
his peace. It appeared that the lad who had been injured was demanding
compensation; Charlesworth, who was ready to give, had refused to
concede; and a venomous little dispute had sprung up, which was
breeding bad blood between him and the men. Added to this, they were
asking higher wages.
“I couldn’t put up with him, and that’s the square truth,” Charlesworth
frankly acknowledged. “If he’d come to me and said, ‘I was knocked
silly, and I’ve lost a couple of weeks; I know I’d no business to be
where I was, and I deserved all I got, but can you do anything for
me?’—then I don’t say but what I might have turned to and helped him
out; that’s talking. But when he swaggers up and says, ‘Show us the
colour of your money and be hanged to you, else I’ll make you,’ why,
then I tell him that he’s at liberty to go to Hades if he likes, but
not a red cent shall he get from me. I don’t know whether that’s your
way of doing business, sir, but I guess it’s mine.”
“My dear fellow, I’d not have you back down, don’t think it! I’ve a
preference myself for fighting things out. When was this?”
Farquhar’s words were exemplary, but his face was less discreet; it was
manifest that he did prefer to fight things out, and Charlesworth, who
laid no claim to the Christian grace of meekness, hailed a spirit akin.
“This evening, after pay-time. I came right round to you.”
“What’s the next move to be?”
“Well,” said Charlesworth, deliberately: “I guess it’s me they’ve got
a down on now; but when the time comes they won’t stop to sort us out.
They’re pretty sick about your newfangled machinery for one thing, and
then there’s the business about the Britishers: taking one thing with
another, and this compensation racket on the top, you may bet they’re
sure-enough mad. And I’ve no use for a funeral at present. So before
we go any further, sir, I’d ask you to come round to the works; for
there’s a job there I’d like you to see.”
He would not explain any further, and the trio walked on past the
gold-litten windows of the hotel towards the quarry. All was silent
there and dark save for the signal-lamp of the watchman, sparkling on
the brow of the pit among the constellations high in the dark sky,
like a topaz among diamonds. Picking their way among the truck lines,
which converged like so many silver cords from all directions towards
the mouth of the quarry, they came up to the splendid block of granite
marked out by Charlesworth for their first serious essay in carving.
Its rich, even colour and fine-grained texture made it very valuable.
A pillar hewn from it, overrun by curly-tailed dragons and roses of
strange design, was assigned to stand in a temple of the Flowery
Land. Another part was to misrepresent the king in the market-place
of a country town; and they had accepted other orders as well, for
the whole mass weighed some thousands of tons. Upon the fulfilment of
these conditions the future of the quarry depended. For three weeks
past they had been hard at work loosening the granite from its bed and
getting it free from the other blocks which wedged it in: an operation
involving nice calculation and accurate obedience. Under Charlesworth’s
directions, shot-holes three feet deep and six inches apart were bored
along the line of cleavage, cleaned out, charged with a cartridge,
and filled up or tamped with clay. With each cartridge a length of
slow fuse was connected, the different strands being gathered together
in a metal case called the igniter, so that the cartridges could be
fired simultaneously. Some use electricity to explode the charge,
Charlesworth did not. The operator, generally himself, had to betake
himself nimbly out of the way while the fuse burned on at three feet
per minute till it came to the cartridge and finished its work. Already
several small blasts had taken place, preparatory to the large final
explosion which was to dissever the whole block from its bed.
“I guess _that’s_ what they’ve got their eye on,” said Charlesworth,
coming to a stand in front of the cliff.
Farquhar thrust his hands into his pockets and said nothing.
“Dmitri Dmitriyevitch vows to be avenged of his enemies,” suggested
Lucian at his ear.
“What’s that?—Shut up, De Saumarez, I’m doing a little thinking. So you
think they mean to spoil the stone, eh, Charlesworth?”
“I guess they mean to,” said the American, austerely, “but I guess I
don’t mean them to.”
“Well, yes, I guess the same; but how do you think they’d set about it?”
“Tamper with the cartridges. Overcharge them, I’d bet: smash the whole
place up, so’s you couldn’t cut a lady’s paper-weight out of the bits.
And if we went up along with it I guess they wouldn’t go into mourning.
That’s the kind of crowd they are: measly little city-bred slushes
who’ll do anything so long as they can keep their own skins whole.”
“I don’t want to lose my granite, and still less to lose my life,” said
Farquhar. “How do you propose to circumvent them?”
“Well, there’s three of us, sir; I reckon we should be able to keep
things straight. I dare say you know the difference between a one-pound
charge and a two-pound, and I know I do, and so does Mr. de Saumarez
here. What we shall have to do is to watch. There’s a matter of a
couple more blasts to run, besides the last. It’ll mean testing every
charge every time; but that’s how I made out we’d do it. Or, of course,
if you like it better, we could cave in, and give the little beggar his
solatium, and raise the men; that’d quiet them for a bit, and then I
dare say they’d let us get this job through and we could fight it out
after, when we don’t stand to lose so much. I’m not boss here; it’s for
you to choose, sir.”
“What do you say, De Saumarez?”
“What the dickens is the use of me saying anything, when you’ve already
made up your mind like unto the solid earth that cannot be moved?”
“Well, I think we’ll fight it out, then,” said Farquhar, with a laugh.
“Fight goes,” concluded Charlesworth.
And they went back to the hotel.
XIV
SMALL BEER
A white cloth, white lilies and scarlet geraniums, red-tiled floor,
flax-blue china: the low sun of evening painted their colours afresh;
the lily petals glistened and sparkled like frosty snow. All the
windows were open, and the soft little wind that stirred the straight
muslin curtains filled the empty room with the scent of unseen pinks.
Then came in Dolly, carrying a squat rounded jug of brown earthenware
smoothly overlaid in silver; the spot of light dancing inside showed
that the jug was full. She set it down by the wooden elbow-chair at
the table’s foot, put straight a sprig of parsley on the dish of cold
meat, glanced at the clock, which said five minutes to seven, and then
sat down, half in sunshine and half in shade, with her hands in her
lap. For no longer than a minute was she idle; a book lay open on the
table, its leaves ruffling and flying over and over, and she pulled it
across and began to read at haphazard, as one visiting an old friend.
For between those covers her old friends dwelt in an army, and Dolly’s
favourite was named Jonis d’Artagnan. Since the age of seven she had
read Dumas in his native tongue. Her brow was clear, her breath was
even, she only moved to turn her page; tranquillity was Dolly’s dower,
bestowed on her by perfect health and peaceful nerves.
At seven o’clock Bernard came in, and Dolly quitted the oak of
Fontainebleau to make the tea. “Have you washed your hands?” was her
greeting, for Bernard was not as careful about such things as he might
have been. Bernard answered: “Yes.”
“Had a good day?”
“Pretty fair.”
Standing before the tray, Dolly put a piece of sugar into her cup,
then some milk, then some cream, and, lastly, the clear, auburn,
aromatic tea. Authorities agree that this is the only correct method
of tea-making, but Dolly kept their laws without knowing them. Bernard
tilted up the silver jug and looked inside, and glanced across at his
sister. “Have you got another cup?” he inquired. “I guess I’ll have tea
to-night.”
“_Tea_, Bernard?”
“Isn’t there enough to go round?”
“Oh! plenty,” said Dolly. “Aren’t you well?”
“I’m off beer for the present; that’s all.”
“It’s quite good; I tasted some when I drew it,” said Dolly, after a
pause.
“Dare say,” said Bernard, regarding the silver jug as though he thought
the beer very good indeed, “but I don’t want it to-day. Are you going
to give me some tea?”
Dolly made a step towards the cupboard, checked herself, and sat down.
“You’d better fetch the cup yourself; it’s the proper thing for you to
wait on me.”
“I don’t see why we should always be on our best behaviour here at
home,” observed Bernard, as, in complying, he knocked over the sugar
basin.
“Because if you don’t practise at home you go wrong when you are out.
You pushed past me on Sunday as we came out of church.”
The charge being true, Bernard felt annoyed. He essayed to drink his
tea, pursed up his lips, and put down the cup in a hurry.
“If you won’t drink the beer, I will; it would be a pity to waste it,”
said Dolly, who was watching him.
“You’d get tipsy if you drank all that.”
“I was not proposing to drink all that; I could not do it if I tried. I
cannot understand how men can dispose of so much.”
“Girls don’t work like men do.”
“It’s a good thing you are giving it up, then; I’ve noticed that you
were beginning to get stout.”
Bernard continued to look stolid. Out of patience, Dolly launched at
him a sudden question.
“Are you turning teetotaller to please Miss Laurenson?”
“I’m not turning teetotaller. I’m only trying it for a time.”
“But is it to please Miss Laurenson?”
“Well, yes; I guess it is.”
“Not really, Bernard?” asked Dolly, with a change of tone.
“Why not?”
“She isn’t your sort. And you’ve only known her for six weeks.”
“Come to think of it, I wouldn’t say the dude is your sort; but you
seem to like talking to him.”
“Bernard, do you want to marry her?” asked Dolly, after a pregnant
pause.
“I’m going to.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that she may have something to say about
that?”
“I dare say she’ll refuse me, but if she does I can ask her again.”
“And if she refuses you again?”
“Then I’ll go on asking till she accepts.”
“In fact, if you persevere you think she is bound to give in?”
“Girls generally do.”
“Do they? I shouldn’t.”
“You aren’t like most girls. You’ve been brought up with men.”
“But, Bernard, Miss Laurenson is an heiress; she has eight hundred a
year of her own, and more to come. Mrs. Merton told me so.”
“Has she? Well, eight hundred a year’ll come in handy; I’m glad to hear
it. If it’s true, that is.”
“And she is very pretty, and she dresses well, and her family is
unexceptionable,” pursued Dolly. “I expect she could marry a peer if
she liked, or at any rate a courtesy title.”
“Yes, but all those titled chaps are pretty rotten,” said Bernard,
cheerfully damning the aristocracy in a lump. “She’d do a sight better
to take me. I’m pretty strong and free from vice, and sound in wind and
limb; and as for family, I guess ours is good enough for anybody, isn’t
it?”
Dolly was reduced to silence, but she was so completely preoccupied
that she poured cream and sugar into Bernard’s cup and filled it up
with beer, producing a mixture which he denounced in emphatic language
and emptied out of the window. Presently she interrupted his talk
about the farm by asking:
“Bernard, are you fond of her?”
“She’s getting a bit long in the tooth, it’s true, but she’s a
pretty creature still. I guess she suits me as well as any,” was the
surprising answer.
“I mean Miss Laurenson.”
“Oh, I thought you were talking about old Empress; I was.”
“Are you fond of her?”
“Yes,” said Bernard, composedly. “I am.”
Dolly shrugged her shoulders. “I hope it will turn out well.”
“Hope so, too,” said Bernard. “She ought to take me simply out of
gratitude. Anything more beastly than tea with this cold beef I never
did taste!”
* * * * *
On the morrow, while Dolly was sweeping her room out, Maggie came
up, gasping, to announce “Miss Lawson”; she had a happy knack of
confounding names. It was, in truth, Angela, driven up by the pair of
donkeys, as Ella Merton said, though only one was in the shafts. Mrs.
Merton herself would not come in, because, she declared, Jehoshaphat
would eat the reins if he were left. Jehoshaphat had a satanic temper
and was more completely omnivorous than an ostrich; beside devouring
reins and boots and tin-tacks, he had a craving for any human flesh
except that of his mistress, an exception which Ella triumphantly
adduced in support of her self-bestowed name, since, said she, dog
doesn’t eat dog.
Therefore Angela was alone in the parlour when Dolly came down; rather
hot, in a faded old dress: Angela, very cool and dainty in white
muslin, now feeling that the advantage of appearance had fallen to her.
Yet, in spite of her dress and her daintiness, she was still like a
delicate sketch by the side of a beautiful painting.
“I’m sorry Mr. Fane isn’t in,” she began, rather stiffly. Angela could
not approve of Dolly, and would not pretend that she did.
“The regret will be all on his side. Won’t you sit down?” quoth Dolly,
very polite.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay, I am keeping Mrs. Merton. May I leave a
message for him?”
“I shall be charmed to deliver it,” Dolly assured her; and Angela
sought consolation by mentally dubbing her accent provincial. Dolly
exasperated her to such an extent that she was ready to imagine a
Kentish twang in Miss Fane’s foreign intonation.
“I believe Mr. Fane is interested in temperance reform”—here Dolly
smiled—“and I thought under the circumstances he might care to attend
the great unsectarian conference which is to be held at Swanborough
next week. I dare say you have heard of it.”
“No; we have severed our connection with the chapel.”
“This meeting is undenominational.”
“Essence of chapel, isn’t that? Or so I have always understood.”
“Perhaps you will tell your brother that it begins at three o’clock,”
Angela trusted herself to say.
“I am sure Bernard will be delighted to go. Of course, he might speak
himself almost as a reformed drunkard.”
“Mr. Fane?”
“You converted him, did you not?”
“I converted him? From what?”
“Oh! from his habit of drinking beer. I am so glad; I have often told
him that he took too much.”
“Really, Miss Fane?” said Angela, in accents of serious concern. “I had
no idea of it! What a shocking thing! I am indeed thankful that I have
been instrumental in helping him to reform.”
Dolly’s lips twitched, but she instantly followed Angela’s lead. “Of
course it was not yet very serious, and he did not often—well—exceed.
But I assure you I am most grateful for all you have done; you have a
wonderful influence over him—truly wonderful!”
“Then I shall hope to see him at Swanborough; and perhaps you will
come, too? You need not feel embarrassed; there will be plenty of girls
of your own age to keep you in countenance,” said Angela, pleasantly.
“Thank you so much,” said Dolly, as she opened the front door.
She stood on the step to speed the parting guests. When the last
flicker of Angela’s white parasol had vanished, she remarked to
herself: “Certainly Bernard has a better right to trust his own
judgment than any one I know!”
Both she and Bernard went to Swanborough for the meeting. They drove;
and, after putting up the horse, had the satisfaction of encountering
Miss Laurenson and her brother outside the station. Bernard went
straight to Angela’s side, and Dolly found herself walking with Mr.
Laurenson. Lal was no talker; and as the uncivilized Dolly had not yet
learned to speak when she did not want to, they walked on in silence.