brother. “As it happens, I mean to get an answer out of her to-night.”
Dolly was silent. His name was the first word that rose to her lips:
his Christian name, the usual preface of an appeal.
“Bernard.”
“Well?”
“Bernard, Angela Laurenson isn’t like me. You ought to be careful; it’s
easy to hurt her feelings.”
“I know all about that.”
“_Do_ you?”
“Yes,” said Bernard. “I do. I’m not an idiot.”
Trying to draw sentimental confessions from Bernard was like trying
to pull a worm out of its hole by the tail. Dolly felt that he was
slipping away, and put one last question.
“You do really care for her, Bernard?”
He deliberated for a minute; a most literal truthfulness informed all
Bernard’s assertions.
“Well, I wouldn’t jump down into the lions after her glove, like that
chap in what’s-his-name,” he said at last: “because I call that silly.
But if it was a question of her or me—I guess I’d give my life for
hers. I’m not quite a fool, Dolly; I can manage for myself. I say, do
you think I ought to keep on these beastly gloves at dinner? If they
have birds or things of that kind, they’ll split down the back.”
Bernard had not been quite open with his sister. At that very moment
Miss Laurenson was sitting in her room with her face in her hands and
an outspread letter before her. She had received it in the afternoon,
and thus it ran:
“DEAR MISS LAURENSON,—You showed yesterday that you did not want
me to speak, so I am not going to bother you with a tête-à-tête.
I am writing this instead, to tell you that Fanes brings in about
three-fifty a year net, and in the past five years I have saved over
a thousand out of this, which invested in Guaranteed Egyptians at
four per cent. brings it up to four hundred. I also expect the value
of the property to go up. My age is twenty-eight, and I am in sound
health. I have a fairly good temper. I have not done anything that I
should be ashamed of you seeing, barring getting tipsy half a dozen
times before I was twenty, and carting manure. I used to poach on
Merton’s land one time, but only when I thought he sold the game.
I never have thought about any other girl but you. Will you, if
you think you can take me, just put some white roses in your dress
to-night? If you wear red ones, I shall take it to mean No. I hope
very much you won’t wear red ones. I am sorry I can’t send you any
flowers, but our roses were all blighted this year, and anyway I know
Merton has plenty in his garden.
“Ever yours with devotion,
“BERNARD DE BEAUFORT FANE.”
Having laughed over this letter till she cried, Angela was now almost
ready to cry in good earnest. After great searchings of heart she had
come to admit that Bernard was all the world to her; but she would
much have preferred to renounce the world and remain her maiden self.
Angela was a little ascetic. Though she loved him truly, it cost her
a bitter struggle to admit a man into her life; especially a man such
as Bernard, who would gently brush away all her delicate scruples and
cobwebs of privacy, and take possession of her, body and soul. She
could trust him to be gentle, but would he understand? To Angela,
wifehood seemed a strange and terrible thing. She feared it—she feared
its prelude of betrothal: seeing herself more clearly than at other
times, she confessed that hers was the nature for obeying, Bernard’s
for ruling. And how she should fare if her lover turned tyrant?
“I’ve brought your flowers,” Lal said, coming in with a cluster of
white roses and ferns. They were prettily arranged, though a little
stiff. But Angela looked doubtful.
“Don’t you care for them? I thought they went well with your dress.”
“I do like them; but—” Angela pushed over Bernard’s letter and looked
away. Lal smiled as he read it.
“Well, and aren’t you going to wear them?”
“Shall I?”
“Are you in doubt?”
“Yes, rather.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid, Lal.”
“Is it that you don’t care—?”
Angela shook her head.
“Then you must wear them,” Lal said. He came to her and fastened them.
Angela looked down at the roses and up at his face; suddenly she threw
her arms round his neck.
“I’m a humbug, Lal,” she said. “You always ruled, not I.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. And he will. And I’m afraid.”
Lal held her quietly. Presently he said: “I think you’re mistaken,
Angel.”
“_Do_ you?” Angela said, looking up with tears on her lashes. “Do you
really, Lal?”
“I do. Fane isn’t exactly an ogre, you know.” Lal smiled. “I shall be
quite ready to give you away to him.”
“And glad, too, I expect: ungrateful boy that you are!” Angela released
herself, and began with unsteady fingers to pull out her crushed curls.
“Wait till you’re married yourself, and see how you like it!”
“I see no immediate prospect of that,” said Lal. “And now, does it not
occur to you that we might go down to dinner?”
Angela slipped her hand through his arm, and so they descended the
stairs. They made a handsome couple, though Lal looked quieter and
lazier even than was his wont. On the last step, Angela came to a pause
of dismay; she coloured crimson, snatched her hand from Lal’s arm, and
fled into the drawing-room. Lal hesitated; he also changed colour;
finally, he made a very formal little bow, and followed his sister
without speaking. Dolly and Bernard had just been admitted to the hall.
“I guess that chap’s gone cracked!” said Bernard, sotto voce. But Dolly
held her peace.
There were present at the dinner only the house party, the Laurensons
and Mrs. Prideaux, besides Dr. Maude, whose faint, acidulated cynicism,
said Ella Merton, was like a sauce piquante. The voice of justice told
Dolly that she must let Lal know he was out of disgrace, but it did
not say that she was bound to explain herself; and so, after smiling at
him and taking his hand when they met in the drawing-room, she eschewed
his society like the very plague. She set herself to behave nicely; she
said little, and that little discreetly, and kept under the wing of her
hostess. She was amused to see that Angela Laurenson was pursuing the
same tactics, except that she had chosen Maud Prideaux for her house of
defence.
Dolly went down with Norman Merton, and found herself placed at table
between him and Lal. She gave Lal the view of a neck as white as milk,
and a rich sweep of chestnut hair glossed with light like the roll of
a stream at a weir; and she talked to her host all the evening. Merton
was shrewd and pleasant, and had plenty to say. Twice Lal addressed
her: to his first speech she gave a brief, cool answer over her
shoulder; to the second she gave no answer at all. Lal did not repeat
his words, nor did he again try to catch her attention. He turned
quietly to his partner; he could afford to be patient because he was
resolute.
Bernard also was content to be patient, but within reasonable limits,
which he felt that Angela had overpassed; she wore his roses, but she
had not given him a word that evening. His partner at dinner was Maud
Prideaux; and, following that simple strategy which goes by the name of
cheek, he took her into his confidence and besought her help. Maud was
already pledged to Angela, but that did not hinder her from deserting
to Bernard’s side. She was a born match-maker. As soon as the men came
up after dinner she proposed a moonlight excursion to see the lake.
Mrs. Merton sighed forth a rapturous assent, sent her husband for
cloaks, and apostrophised the stars in an impromptu verse. A French
window led out to a balcony, from which steps ran down to the garden.
Mrs. Merton went first, to show the way; Angela, whose eyes were quite
blind in the dusk, was a few steps behind. Maud Prideaux shot Bernard
a mischievous glance of invitation, stooped down, and carefully tied
up a bow which had not come undone. In an instant Angela found her
chaperon’s place usurped by a tall figure, which bent down and said, in
a moving whisper:
“I guess you’d better take my arm or you’ll tumble down the steps.”
This time Angela did not refuse; she laid her fingers on his sleeve
with a queer, wild thrill of feeling, half pleasure and half fear.
Bernard put his own hand over hers. “I’m no end glad,” he said, quite
simply.
Then he led her, trusting to his guidance for every step, down a
lonely, mossy path through a copse of trees: to Bernard’s eyes the
darkness was clear as daylight. When they were as far from the moonlit
lake as the size of the garden would permit, he began to talk.
“I expect you’re pretty shy of taking me, aren’t you?” he said, gently.
“Rather. I—I should be—always—whoever it was.”
“I suppose girls are made like that.” Bernard paused to contemplate the
strangeness of feminine nature. “But what I mean is that you feel it’s
specially risky taking me, because you and I are so different. Don’t
you?”
Angela said nothing.
“Dolly was trying to lecture me about that this evening,” Bernard
pursued. “She was saying you aren’t like her. Well, I should think
anybody could see that who wasn’t an ass. Dolly could walk twenty miles
and come up smiling, and I shouldn’t let you do more than about two.
And it’s just the same with your feelings. You want looking after, and
taking care of, and that sort of thing.”
“I’m used to taking care of myself, and Lal, too,” Angela pointed out.
“Well, of course, you won’t do that any more,” Bernard assured her,
with calm authority. “Laurenson’ll have to shift for himself, he’s old
enough; and I shall look after you. When we’re married, you know, I
sha’n’t let you do the dairy work or any of the things Dolly does. We
shall have to have another servant; but that won’t matter so much, as
you’ve got some money of your own.”
“How do you know I have money of my own?”
“Mrs. Merton told Dolly you’d got eight hundred a year. Of course, one
can’t put much faith in what she says, but there’s no smoke without a
fire; so I guessed you had some. You have, haven’t you?”
“Mrs. Merton never exaggerates. I have what she said I had.”
“Have you really eight hundred a year? It’ll come in handy at Fanes.”
“I hope you didn’t ask me for my money,” Angela said, with a forlorn
laugh.
“I shouldn’t be such a fool.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather be comfortable than rich, any day. I wouldn’t saddle myself
with a girl I didn’t like, not if she had ten thousand a year. I can’t
stand rows. I suppose if it got too bad you could arrange a separation,
but I’d sooner lose the money than have the bother of that. A man
should keep his private affairs out of people’s mouths.”
“I’m glad you don’t think I shall make rows,” said Angela. “But why did
you want me, then?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Bernard paused and meditated. “It wasn’t because
of your money, nor yet because you were pretty; I know that. I only
know, when I saw you that night, I felt like the chap in Tennyson.
You know; he saw the girl at home in her oldest dress, looking no end
shabby, and he just said to himself: _Here, by God’s rood, is the one
maid for me._ Well, I said the same; I made up my mind I’d have you,
right away.”
“Suppose I’d refused you?”
“I didn’t think you would, in the long-run.”
“Oh!”
“I don’t mean exactly that,” Bernard hastily added, feeling that he had
not put the case quite prettily. “I mean that I had a kind of idea all
along that you liked me, just as I liked you, directly we met.”
Under the leaves and the soft summer stars they paced the path
together. It was so dark that Angela bent her head to avoid an empty
shadow, and walked straight into the brush of soft leaves which an
elm-tree drooped across the way. She stood still while Bernard freed
her hair: expeditiously he did it, with no tender dallyings, and she
was truly thankful. Angela was beginning to see what life would be to
Bernard Fane’s wife. Stable as the English soil beneath their feet,
temperate as this English summer night, with no tropic storms and no
yawning earthquakes, so would his love be; the cupboards in his house
held no skeletons. All Angela’s adventurous thoughts of freedom were
coming home to shelter under a man’s protecting care. It was true that
Bernard had developed a talent for saying what should not be said;
but that Angela resentfully ascribed to Dolly’s interference. She saw
herself darning her stalwart protector’s socks by the fireside. The
picture was touching and beautiful. Yet—
“I hope you’ll like Fanes,” Bernard said, tucking her hand comfortably
under his arm. “It’s all right now, but it’s a bit lonely in winter.”
“We might spend the winter in London.”
“There’s no one but me to see to things; I couldn’t get away.”
“Couldn’t you have a manager?”
“Managers aren’t to be trusted. If you want a thing well done, I guess
you must do it yourself.”
“But do you propose to stay at Fanes all the year round?”
“No. You’ll want some sort of a holiday, of course. I dare say I could
get away for a fortnight or so in January; things are pretty slack
then.”
Angela was silent for a space; then she said, with some firmness: “I’m
afraid I shall have to be a good deal away, then; I must be in London
sometimes to attend meetings and look after the different societies in
which I am interested. I shall ask Mrs. Prideaux to put me up; that is
pleasanter than going to a hotel.”
“Do you mean, you go up without me?”
“As you can’t get away, I suppose I must.”
“I shouldn’t like that at all.”
“Why not?”
“It’s jolly bad for husband and wife not to be together. A woman’s
place is with her husband. Besides, people are safe to talk, and that’s
a thing I can’t stand. I guess I’ll have to come up with you when
you’re obliged to go. I dare say you’ll chuck a good many of the things
after we’re married; girls generally do.”
“Can’t you trust me in London alone?” Angela said, in a very quiet
voice.
“No, I can’t—” Bernard was beginning, in all innocence, wishing to
point out to Angela the perils of the London streets, where she had
lived all her life, when she suddenly amazed him by withdrawing her
hand very decidedly, and facing him in an unmistakably belligerent
attitude.
“In that case, Mr. Fane,” she said, her voice trembling with
indignation, “I think we had better part at once.”
“Why, Angela!”
“Don’t call me that, please. There are your flowers.” She cast the
roses at his feet with a dramatic gesture. “Your idea of a wife seems
to be a—a kind of carpet for you to walk on. You don’t know why you
wanted to marry me; I’m sure I don’t know, either, since you say it
was not for my money. You evidently don’t think I’m good for anything
useful, and you’ve told me that I’m not ornamental. I’m not fit to do
any of the things Dolly does; I’m not to walk two miles without your
permission; I’m not to be trusted to go about in London at all, and you
even expect me to give up the work I’ve been doing for years, and _can_
do! Thank you, Mr. Fane, the prospect is not sufficiently attractive. I
must trouble you to look for a wife who is willing to fall in with your
peculiar tastes. _I’m_ not!”
She turned her back and swept away, leaving Bernard staring. He ran
after her and caught her up.
“Look here, Angela—”
“Let me alone at once!”
“But you don’t understand—”
“I understand quite enough. _You_ don’t understand how to behave.”
“Angela, I do love you.”
“I don’t love you, and I don’t want to!”
She broke away, and he let her go. For five minutes he stood quite
still. Bernard had no lack of wits, and he now saw his mistakes quite
plainly, the very mistakes against which Dolly had tried to warn him.
It was the bitterest blow he had ever had in his life, and the minutes
he spent there alone were primed with salutary reflections.
Angela, running out of the wood, came upon Maud Prideaux, who was
enjoying a moonlight flirtation with Norman Merton.
“My dear child!”
“I—beg your pardon,” said Angela, breathless and confused. Maud gave
her a sharp look. She turned on her companion. “Mr. Merton, you can run
away now and play; I’m going to talk to Angela. Mind, the bet stands.”
“All right, Mrs. Prideaux,” Merton answered, laughing as he went away.
Maud scanned Angela’s discomposed countenance with a sparkling eye.
“What have you been doing?” she asked, in her usual drawl.
Angela did not reply.
“Dear, dear! Refusing Bernard Fane, upon my honour! Really, Angela,
it’s too bad to lead the poor man on as you did and then throw him
over.”
“I did _not_ lead him on.”
Maud shrugged her shoulders. “You’re a shocking little flirt, my
dear, but I really think you might have let the poor barbarian go.
I shouldn’t wonder if the gardener swept him up to-morrow, with his
throat cut. There’s poor Lal, too, ready to shoot himself. The way you
young people behave is quite dreadful; I should have been ashamed to do
so.”
As Mrs. Prideaux before her marriage had been the most open and
shameless flirt, Angela could not but resent this remark. “I _never_
flirted with Mr. Fane,” she said.
“How about his roses? I see you’ve given them back to him.”
This was purely a guess, based on an observation of glances during
dinner and the absence of the flowers from Angela’s corsage. Miss
Laurenson grew warmly red, and said nothing. Maud’s kindly inquisitive
eyes searched her; she tapped her on the shoulder with her fan. “Come,
tell me all about it. My dear child, what have you been doing? You’re
like Lot’s wife, all tears.”
“Thank you, I’m not salt yet,” said Angela, whose eyes were still quite
dry.
“Wasn’t it Lot’s wife? I don’t pretend to be clever; it wasn’t the
fashion for girls to know anything in my day. What have you been saying
to Bernard Fane?”
Sure of an interested listener, Angela told her tale. At its close she
got a surprising shock. “Do you know what you ought to do now?” said
Mrs. Prideaux.
“What?”
“Go right back and beg his pardon.”
“Maud! I’d rather die!”
“Yes, and to-morrow you’ll be dying—dying to go and do it, but it’ll be
too late then. You’re simply desperately in love with him, can’t say
his name without blushing—yes, there she goes, the colour of a poppy!
The child says she’s not in love with him! Well, well!”
“I hate him!” Angela declared, hiding her crimson cheeks in her hands.
“My dear child, hatred’s the back door into love. Think of him, lying
on the damp ground with his throat cut!—such a nice throat, too! He’s
adorably handsome, for a barbarian. Of course, he drops an h or so now
and then—”
“He never does.”
“Doesn’t he? Well, no doubt you know better than I do. I wouldn’t have
your conscience, Angela.”
“He was very rude to me.”
“Asked you to marry him, didn’t he? Shockin’ presumption!”
“I only told him the truth.”
“When I refused a man, I always did it nicely and tried to spare his
feelings. I don’t see why you are so angry with the poor man; I’m sure
it was very brave of him to fall in love with you.”
Silence for a little while. Angela said at last: “Maud, do you really
think I ought to beg his pardon?”
“Haven’t the slightest doubt of it, my dear.”
“It will look as though I wanted—”
“Exactly what you do want. You’ve been talking a great deal about the
rights of women all your life; haven’t you found out yet that a woman’s
best right is to obey her husband?”
“No, I haven’t, and I don’t think it is.”
“Then it’s time you learned that it is. We aren’t made for anything
else, my dear, you and I; we’re ordinary women, and we must make the
best of it. You can’t imitate Dolly Fane, so don’t try to.”
“It’s the very last thing I should do!”
“Well, go and beg the barbarian’s pardon, then; she would never do
that.” Maud had a grudge against Dolly because she disliked gossip.
“I _can’t_!”
“Nonsense, my dear child! You’re going to. There’s your path; run
along, like a good little girl, and be sure you don’t tumble on your
nose.—And there’s half my bet won!”
Maud had sent her off with a maternal pat, and Angela found herself
going obediently. Instinct led truer than reason. Down the shadowy
path she came blindly hurrying, and ran full against Bernard, leaning
motionless against a tree.
“Angela!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Angela said, with a sob.
Thus was peace established; but Angela soon found that in yielding she
had stooped to conquer: her bear was transformed into a lamb. She might
live at Timbuctoo, if it pleased her; she might wander through London
alone till one in the morning, though plainly Bernard did not like the
prospect.
“But, Bernard, why shouldn’t I?” Angela cried.
“Because you’re so awfully pretty,” was the surprising answer.
“Bernard! I thought you said I wasn’t pretty!”
“I don’t know where you got that idea from.”
“You said you didn’t want me for my looks.”
“Neither do I; I should want you just the same if you were like a
gorilla.”
“But _do_ you think me pretty?”
“I should hope so!”
“As pretty as Dolly?”
“Dolly? Dolly’s a milkmaid and you’re a princess. Any one can see
there’s no comparison. Dolly’s well enough, barring her carroty hair;
but you’re so awfully distinguished-looking. I don’t see why you want
me to tell you this; you must know it already.”
“I like compliments—I expect compliments; that’s one of the things you
have to learn.”
“It’ll come pretty easy. I shall only have to say out what I think.”
“If you talk like that,” said Angela, “perhaps I’ll let you take me
about London, after all. Now we must go back to the house; it’s getting
shamefully late.”
“I don’t want to go up yet.”
“I do.”
Bernard looked down at her and laughed. “All right,” he said; “I guess
you mean to have your own way.”
They came together slowly up the garden. The gold rectangle of the
uncurtained window shone out in the dusk; the figures of Dolly and of
Mrs. Merton appeared on the balcony, silhouetted against the light.
Ella soon went in, but Dolly lingered, gazing at the dusky woods and
the diamond gleam of the lake. Suddenly another figure came swiftly
up the steps. Dolly turned at once towards the window; the lamplight
fell on her face. Lal laid his hand on her arm and spoke in her ear:
a single sentence, no more. Bernard saw his sister turn crimson. She
answered briefly, broke away, went into the house. Lal fell back into
the shadow.
“Did you see that?” whispered Angela.
“M’yes. I rather think I did.”
“Oh, Bernard! What did she say?”
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“Let’s go in directly,” said Angela, in high excitement.
On the balcony they passed Lal; but Lal’s face was never the index
of his feelings, and it baffled curiosity. From the threshold Angela
looked round for Dolly, to discover that, whatever had happened a
minute ago, Dolly was not thinking of it now. She stood, one of a
group surrounding Norman Merton, who had the evening paper and was
reading aloud from it. Pretty little Mrs. Merton was very grave, her
eyes soft with pity and distress; Maud Prideaux looked horrified.
Dolly’s face Angela could not decipher; it was held by some thought
more powerful than pity or horror.
“‘... Had the explosion taken place five minutes earlier the carnage
must have been frightful, and many families deprived of their
breadwinners. As it is, we regret to announce the death of Mr. Lucian
de Saumarez, the well-known author, who was a partner in the business,
and of the manager, Mr. Smith Charlesworth. Both were standing too
close to the scene of destruction to be able to escape. It is feared
that the bodies, which are buried under a huge accumulation of débris,
will never be recovered. Much sympathy is felt for Mr. Farquhar, who
has been deprived at one blow of his friend and his fortune—’”
“Is Mr. Farquhar hurt?”
Dolly spoke out, careless who might hear.
“No, Miss Fane, Farquhar’s perfectly safe.”
“Not hurt! How did it happen?”
“No one knows at present, but they seem to think there was foul play.”
White as death, she turned away, listening to no more. Lal, who had
just come in, was standing by the window; Dolly’s eyes sought his.
“Will you go out to Petit-Fays for me?” Angela heard her say. And: “I
will go wherever you wish,” Lal answered without hesitation.
XVII
THE ONE SHALL BE TAKEN
On the day after the meeting at Swanborough, Noel Farquhar walked in
upon Lucian in his room and found him sitting in his shirt and trousers
trying to write. It was intensely hot, and he had cast off his coat
and his waistcoat and his collar, his tie and his boots, had posted
open the door and flung wide the window, and hung across a string of
dripping towels to keep out the sun. Nevertheless, he was mopping
his brow with a dirty old penwiper-handkerchief, and his face was
colourless but for its tan.
“Sit down,” he said; “sit down and let me swear at you for a bit; I’m
tired of haranguing a condemned desk that doesn’t respond. What’s the
matter, sonny? You look as blue as a thunder-cloud with cholera-morbus.”
“Can you listen to business or can you not?”