"If you say one word to me this afternoon which might even be remotely
twisted into being serious," said Joan, "I shall upset you in the middle
of the lake."
An inspection of the general lines of the boat prevented Vane from taking
the threat too seriously; with anything approaching luck a party of four
could have crossed the Atlantic in it. Innumerable cushions scattered
promiscuously served to make it comfortable, and as the girl spoke Vane
from his seat in the stern was helping to push the boat from the
boat-house.
"You terrify me, lady," he murmured. "What shall I talk to you about?"
The girl was pulling lazily at the oars, and slowly they drifted out into
the sunshine. "So she who must be obeyed is Margaret Trent, is she?"
"The evidence seems a trifle slight," said Vane. "But as I rather gather
you're an insistent sort of person, I will plead guilty at once, to save
bother."
"You think I generally get my own way, do you?"
"I do," answered Vane. "Don't you?"
The girl ignored the question. "What is she like? I've often heard dad
speak about Mr. Trent; and I think she came once to Blandford, when I was
away."
"I gather that you were being finished." Vane started filling his pipe.
"At least she said so in a letter I got this morning."
Joan looked at him for a moment. "Did you write to her about me?"
"I don't think she even knows you're at home," said Vane shortly, "much
less that I've met you."
"Would you mind her knowing?" persisted the girl.
"Why on earth should I?" demanded Vane with a look of blank surprise.
She took a few strokes, and then rested on her oars again. "There are
people," she said calmly, "who consider I'm the limit--a nasty, fast
hussy. . . ."
"What appalling affectation on your part," jeered Vane lighting his pipe.
"What do you do to keep up your reputation--sell flags in Leicester
Square on flag days?" The girl's attention seemed to be concentrated on
a patch of reeds where a water-hen was becoming vociferous. "Or do you
pursue the line taken up by a woman I met last time I was on leave? She
was a Wraf or a Wren or something of that kind, and at the time she was
in mufti. But to show how up to date she was she had assimilated the
jargon, so to speak, of the mechanics she worked with. It almost gave me
a shock when she said to me in a confidential aside at a mutual friend's
house, 'Have you ever sat down to a more perfectly bloody tea?'"
"I think," said Joan with her eyes still fixed on the reeds, "that that
is beastly. It's not smart, and it does not attract men . . ."
"You're perfectly right there," returned Vane, grimly. "However, arising
out of that remark, is your whole object in life to attract men?"
"Of course it is. It's the sole object of nine women out of ten. Why
ask such absurd questions?"
"I sit rebuked," murmured Vane. "But to return--in what way do your
charitable friends consider you the limit?"
"I happen to be natural," said Joan, "and at times that's very dangerous.
I'm not the sort of natural, you know, that loves cows and a country
life, and gives the chickens their hard-boiled eggs, or whatever they
eat, at five in the morning."
"But you like Blandford," said Vane incautiously.
"Blandford!" A passionate look came into her face, as her eyes looking
over his head rested on the old house. "Blandford is just part of me.
It's different. Besides, the cow man hasn't been called up," she added
inconsequently. "He's sixty-three."
"A most tactful proceeding," said Vane, skating away from thin ice.
"I'm natural in another way," she went on after a short silence. "If I
want to do a thing--I generally do it. For instance, if I want to go and
talk to a man in his rooms, I do so. Why shouldn't I? If I want to
dance a skirt dance in a London ballroom, I do it. But some people seem
to think it's fast. I made quite a lot of money once dancing at a
restaurant with a man, you know--in between the tables. Of course we
wore masks, because it might have embarrassed some of the diners to
recognise me." The oars had dropped unheeded from her hands, and she
leaned forward, looking at Vane with mocking eyes. "I just loved it."
"I'll bet you did," laughed Vane. "What made you give it up?"
"A difference of opinion between myself and some of the male diners,
which threatened to become chronic," she returned dreamily. "That's a
thing, my seeker after information, which the war hasn't changed, anyway."
For a while he made no answer, but lay back against the cushions, puffing
at his pipe. Occasionally she pulled two or three gentle strokes with
the oars, but for the most part she sat motionless with her eyes brooding
dreamily over the lazy beauty of the water.
"You're a funny mixture, Joan," he said at length. "Devilish
funny. . . ." And as he spoke a fat old carp rose almost under the boat
and took an unwary fly. "The sort of mixture, you know, that drives a
man insane. . . ."
She was looking at the widening ripples caused by the fish and she smiled
slightly. Then she shrugged her shoulders. "I am what I am. . . . And
just as with that fly, fate comes along suddenly, doesn't it, and
pouf . . . it's all over! All its little worries settled for ever in a
carp's tummy. If only one's own troubles could be settled quite as
expeditiously. . . ."
He looked at her curiously. "It helps sometimes, Joan, to shoot your
mouth, as our friends across the water say. I'm here to listen, if it's
any comfort. . . ."
She turned and faced him thoughtfully. "There's something about you,
Derek, that I rather like." It was the first time that she had called
him by his Christian name, and Vane felt a little pleasurable thrill run
through him. But outwardly he gave no sign.
"That is not a bad beginning, then," he said quietly. "If you're
energetic enough let's get the boat under that weeping willow. I'm
thinking we might tie her up, and there's room for an army corps in the
stern here. . . ."
The boat brushed through the drooping branches, and Vane stepped into the
bow to make fast. Then he turned round, and stood for a while watching
the girl as she made herself comfortable amongst the cushions. . . .
"There was once upon a time," he prompted, "a man. . . ."
"Possessed," said Joan, "of great wealth. Gold and silver and precious
stones were his for the asking. . . ."
"It's to be assumed that the fortunate maiden who was destined to become
his wife would join in the chorus with average success," commented Vane
judicially.
"The assumption is perfectly correct. Is not the leading lady worthy of
her hire?" She leaned back in her cushions and looked up at Vane through
half-closed eyes. "In the fulness of time," she went on dreamily, "it
came to pass that the man possessed of great wealth began to sit up and
take notice. 'Behold,' he said to himself, 'I have all that my heart
desireth, saving only one thing. My material possessions grow and
increase daily, and, as long as people who ought to know better continue
to kill each other, even so long will they continue growing.' I don't
think I mentioned, did I, that there was a perfectly 'orrible war on
round the corner during the period under consideration?"
"These little details--though trifling--should not be omitted," remarked
Vane severely. "It is the duty of all story tellers to get their
atmosphere correct. . . ." He sat down facing her and started to refill
his pipe. . . . "What was this one thing he lacked?"
"Don't interrupt. It is the duty of all listeners to control their
impatience. Only the uninitiated skip."
"I abase myself," murmured Vane. "Proceed, I pray you."
"So the man of great wealth during the rare intervals which he could
snatch from amassing more--continued to commune with himself. 'I will
look around,' he said to himself, 'and select me a damsel from amongst
the daughters of the people. Peradventure, she may be rich--peradventure
she may be poor; but since I have enough of the necessary wherewithal to
support the entire beauty chorus which appears nightly in the building
down the road known as the House of Gaiety--the question of her means is
immaterial. Only one thing do I insist upon, that she be passing fair to
look upon. Otherwise--nix doing for this child. . . .'"
Joan stirred restlessly, and her fingers drummed idly on the side of the
boat. And Vane--because he was a man, and because the girl so close to
him was more than passing lovely--said things under his breath. The
parable was rather too plain.
"And behold one night," went on Joan after a while, "this man of great
wealth partook of his dried rusk and Vichy water--his digestion was not
all it might be--at the house of one of the nobility of his tribe. The
giver of the feast had permitted his name to be used on the prospectus of
some scheme organised by the man of wealth--thereby inspiring confidence
in all who read, and incidentally pouching some of the Bradburys. He
further considered it possible that by filling his guest with food and
much wine, he might continue the good work on other prospectuses, thereby
pouching more Bradburys. In the vulgar language in vogue at the period,
however, Vichy water put the lid on that venture with a bang. . . . But
even with champagne it is doubtful whether there would have been much
doing, because--well, because--the man of wealth had his attention for
the moment occupied elsewhere. To be exact on the other side of the
table. . . ."
"Ah!" said Vane, and his breath came in a sort of sigh. "I'm thinking
you had better let me tell this bit. It was just after the slaves had
thrown open the doors, and the guests had seated themselves, that the man
of great wealth chanced to look up from his rusk. He frequently did look
up when consuming these delicacies, otherwise he found they made him
excited, and calmness is necessary for the poor digestion. He looked up
then, as usual, and suddenly he caught his breath. Over a great silver
bowl filled with roses. . . ."
"Carnations sound better," said Joan.
"Filled with carnations he saw a girl. . . . They were pink and red
those carnations--glorious in the shaded light; and the silver and the
glass with which this tribe was wont to feed its face glittered and shone
on the polished table. But the man of wealth had silver and glass as
good, and he had no eyes for that. . . . For it had come to him, and he
was a man who was used to making up his mind quickly, that he had found
the damsel he required. She was dressed--ah! how was she dressed, lady?
She was dressed in a sort of grey gauzy stuff, and her neck and shoulders
gleamed white--gloriously white. A great mass of brown hair which
shimmered as if it was alive; a little oval face, with cheeks that seemed
as if the sun had kissed them. A mouth quite small, with lips that
parted in a mocking smile; a nose--well, just a nose. But crowning
everything--dominating everything--a pair of great grey eyes. What eyes
they were! They made the man of wealth bolt his rusk. There was one
mouthful he only chewed fifteen times instead of the customary
thirty-two. They contained all Heaven, and they contained all Hell; in
them lay the glory of a God, the devilment of a Siren, and the peace of a
woman . . . . And just once she looked at him during dinner--the look of
a stranger--cool and self-possessed. Just casually she wondered whether
it was worth while to buy money at the cost of a rusk diet; then she
turned to the man next her. . . . Let's see--he was a warrior, snatching
a spell of rest from the scrap round the corner. And she didn't even
hear the man of great wealth choke as the half-chewed rusk went down
wallop."
The girl looked at Vane for a moment. "But you are really rather a
dear," she remarked thoughtfully.
"It's your turn now," said Vane shortly.
"The donor of the feast," she resumed at once, "was going a mucker. The
possession of extra Bradburys, coupled with a wife who combined a
champagne taste with his gin income, had inspired him to give a dance.
He hoped that it might help to keep the damn woman quiet for a bit; and,
besides everybody was giving dances. It was the thing to do, and
warriors fresh from the fierce battle were wont to step lightly on the
polished floor. As a matter of historical interest nine out of every ten
of the warriors who performed nightly at different houses were fresh from
the office stool at the House of War--a large edifice, completely filled
with girl scouts and brain-storms. . . ."
"Beautiful," chuckled Vane; "quite beautiful."
"You see the actual warriors didn't get much of a look in. By the time
they got to know anybody they had to go back round the corner again and
they got tired of propping up the walls and looking on. Besides what
made it even more dangerous for them was that kind-hearted women took
compassion on them, and their own empty programmes and introduced
themselves. And in the vernacular they were the snags. But all these
things were hidden from the man of great wealth. . . ."
"Contrary to a life-long habit," said Vane, "he remained after dinner and
haunted the door. Just every now and then a girl in grey gauzy stuff
floated past him--and once, only once, he found himself looking into
those big grey eyes when she passed quite close to him going out to get
some lemonade. And the rusk did a somersault. . . ."
"But he didn't haunt the door," gurgled Joan. "He got roped in. He fell
an easy victim to the snag parade--and women fainted and men wept when
the man of great possessions and the pointed woman took the floor. . . ."
"Pointed?" murmured Vane.
"All jolts and bumps," explained the girl. "Her knees were like steel
castings. I think that if the--if the girl in grey gauzy stuff had
realised that the man of wealth had stopped behind for her, she might,
out of pity, have given him one dance. But instead all she did was to
shake with laughter as she saw him quivering in a corner held fast in the
clutch of the human steam engine. She heard the blows he was receiving;
they sounded like a hammer hitting wood; and then later she saw him
limping painfully from the room--probably in search of some Elliman's
embrocation. But, as I say, she didn't realise it. . . . She only
thought him a silly old man. . . ."
"Old," said Vane slowly. . . . "How old?"
"About fifty," said the girl vaguely. Then she looked at Vane. "She
found out later that he was forty-eight, to be exact."
"Not so very old after all," remarked Vane, pitching a used match into
the water, and stuffing down the tobacco in his pipe with unusual care.
"It was towards the end of the dance," she resumed, "that the man of
great wealth was introduced to the girl in grey, by the donor of the
feast. The band had gathered in all the coal-scuttles and pots it could,
and was hitting them hard with pokers when the historical meeting took
place. You see it was a Jazz band and they always economise by borrowing
their instruments in the houses they go to. . . ."
"And did she dance with him?" asked Vane.
"I don't think he even asked her to," said Joan. "But even as she went
off with a boy in the Flying Corps she realised that she was face to face
with a problem."
"Quick work," murmured Vane.
"Most of the big problems in life are quick," returned the girl. "You
see the man of great possessions was not accustomed to disguising his
feelings; and the girl--though she didn't show it--was never far removed
from the skeleton in her cupboard."
She fell silent, and for a while they neither of them spoke.
"It developed along the accepted lines, I suppose," remarked Vane at
length.
"Everything quite conventional," she answered. "A fortnight later he
suggested that she should honour him by accepting his name and wealth.
He has repeated the suggestions at frequent intervals since. . . ."
"Then she didn't say 'Yes' at once," said Vane softly.
"Ah! no," answered the girl. "And as a matter of fact she hasn't said it
yet."
"But sometimes o' nights," said Vane, "she lies awake and wonders. And
then she gets out of bed, and perhaps the moon is up, shining cold and
white on the water that lies in front of her window. And the trees are
throwing black shadows, and somewhere in the depths of an old patriarch
an owl is hooting mournfully. For a while she stands in front of her
open window. The air is warm, and the faint scent of roses comes to her
from outside. A great pride wells up in her--a great pride and a great
love, for the sleeping glory in front of her belongs to her; to her and
her father and her brother." The girl's face was half-turned away, and
for a moment Vane watched the lovely profile gravely. "And then," he
went on slowly, "with a sigh she sits down in the big arm-chair close to
the window, and the black dog comes in and settles on her. In another
room in the house she sees her father, worrying, wondering whether
anything can be done, or whether the glory that has been theirs for
hundreds of years must pass into the hands of a stranger. . . . And
after a while the way out comes into her thoughts, and she stirs
restlessly in her chair. Because, though the girl in grey is one of the
set in her tribe who dance and feed in many public places, and which has
nothing in common with those who sit at home doing good works; yet she
possesses one or two strange, old-fashioned ideas, which she will hardly
ever admit even to herself. Just sometimes o' night they creep out as
she stares through the window, and the weird cries of the wild come
softly through the air. 'Somewhere, there is a Prince Charming,' they
whisper, and with a sigh she lets herself dream. At last she creeps back
to bed--and if she is very, very lucky the dreams go on in her sleep."
Vane knocked out his pipe on the side of the boat.
"It's only when morning comes," he went on, and there was a hint of
sadness in his voice, "that the strange, old-fashioned ideas creep shyly
into the corner. Along with the tea have come some of the new smart ones
which makes them feel badly dressed and dull. They feel that they are
gauche--and yet they know that they are beautiful--wonderfully beautiful
in their own badly dressed way. Timidly they watch from their
corner--hoping, hoping. . . . And then at last they just disappear.
They're only dream ideas, you see; I suppose they can't stand daylight
and tea with saccharine in it, and reality. . . . It's as they float
towards the window that sometimes they hear the girl talking to herself.
'Don't be a fool,' she says angrily, 'you've got to face facts, my dear.
And a possible.' Charming without a bean in the world isn't a fact--it's
a farce. It simply can't be done. . . . And three new very smart ideas
in their best glad rags make three long noses at the poor little dowdy
fellows as they go fluttering away to try to find another home."
Vane laughed gently, and held out his cigarette case to the girl. And it
was as she turned to take one that he saw her eyes were very bright--with
the starry brightness of unshed tears. "Sure--but it's nice to talk rot
at times, my lady, isn't it?" he murmured. "And, incidentally, I'm
thinking I didn't tell the grey girl's story quite right. Because it
wasn't herself that she was thinking of most; though," and his eyes
twinkled, "I don't think, from my ideas of her, that she is cut out for
love in a cottage, with even the most adorable Prince Charming. But it
wasn't herself that came first; it was pride and love of home and pride
and love of family."
The girl bit her lip and stared at him with a troubled look. "Tell me,
oh man of much understanding," she said softly, "what comes next?"
But Vane shook his head with a laugh. "Cross my palm with silver, pretty
lady, and the old gipsy will tell your fortune. . . . I see a girl in
grey surrounded by men-servants and maid-servants, and encased in costly
furs and sparkling gems. Standing at the door outside is a large and
expensive Limousine into which she steps. The door is shut, and the car
glides off, threading its way through the London traffic. At last the
road becomes clearer, the speed increases, until after an hour's run the
car swings in between some old lodge gates. Without a sound it sweeps up
the drive, and the girl sees the first glint of the lake through the
trees. There is a weeping willow too, and as her eyes rest on it she
smiles a little, and then she sighs. The next moment the car is at the
front door, and she is in the arms of a man who has come out to meet her.
She calls him 'Dad,' and there's a boy just behind him, with his hands in
his pockets, who has eyes for nothing except the car. Because it's
'some' car. . . . She spends the day there, and when she's leaving, the
man she calls 'Dad' puts his hand on her arm. He just looks at
her--that's all, and she smiles back at him. For there's no worry now on
his face, no business trouble to cut lines on his brow. But
sometimes--he wonders; and then she just smiles at him, and his doubts
vanish. They never put it into words those two, and perhaps it is as
well. . . . A smile is so easy, it conceals so much. Not that there's
much to hide on her part. With her eyes wide open she made her choice,
and assuredly it had been worth while. Her father was happy; the old
house was safe and her husband was kind. . . . Only as the car glides
away from the door, her grey eyes once again rest on a weeping willow. A
fat old carp rises with a splash and she sees the ripples widening. . . .
And the smile fades from her lips, because--well, thoughts are capricious
things, and the weeping willow and the carp remind her of a certain
afternoon, and what a certain foolish weaver of fantasies said to
her. . . once in the long ago. Much has she got--much has she given to
others. It may have been worth while--but she has lost the biggest thing
in Life. That has passed her by. . . ."
"The biggest thing in Life," she whispered. "I wonder; oh! I wonder."
"Maybe she would never have found it," he went on, "even if she had not
married the man of great possessions. And then, indeed, she could have
said with reason--'I sure have made a damn fool of myself.' To throw
away the chances of costly furs and sparkling gems; to see _les papillons
noirs_ fluttering round her father's head in increasing numbers--and not
to find the biggest thing in Life after such a sacrifice--yes, that would
be too cruel. So, on balance, perhaps she had chosen wisely. . . ."
"And is that all!" she asked him. "Is there no other course?" She
leaned towards him, and her lips were parted slightly. For a moment or
two he watched the slow rise and fall of her bosom, and then with a
short, hard laugh he turned away.
"You want a lot for your money, my lady," he said, and his voice shook a
little. "But I will paint you another picture, before we drift through
the branches back to the boat-house and--reality. I see another
house--just an ordinary nice comfortable house--four reception, ten bed,
h. & c. laid on, with garage. Close to good golf links. A girl in grey
is standing in the hall, leaning over a pram in which the jolliest,
fattest boy you've ever thought of is sitting and generally bossing the
entire show. He is reputed by his nurse, who is old enough to know
better, to have just spoken his first consecutive sentence. To the
brutal and unimaginative father who is outside with his golf clubs it had
sounded like 'Wum--wah!' According to the interpreter it meant that he
wanted an egg for tea; and it was being duly entered up in a book which
contained spaces for Baby's first tooth, the first time he was sick, when
he smashed his first toy--and other milestones in his career. . . . Ah!
but it's a jolly house. There are no crowds of men-servants and
maid-servants; there is no priceless Limousine. And the girl just wears
a grey silk jersey with a belt, and a grey skirt and grey brogues. And,
ye Gods! but she looks topping, as she steps out to join the brutal man
outside. Her golf clubs are slung over her shoulder, and together they
foot it to the first tee. . . . He is just scratch, and she. . . . let's
think. . . ."
"Eight would be a good sort of handicap," murmured the girl.
"Eight it is," said Vane. "That means he gives her six strokes, and
generally beats her."
"I'll bet he doesn't," cried the girl.
"You must not interrupt the old gipsy, my lady," rebuked Vane, "You see,
it doesn't matter to those two which wins--not a little bit, for the most
important hole in the course is the tenth. It's a short hole, with the
most enormous sand bunker guarding the green on the right. And though
for nine holes neither of them has sliced, at the tenth they both do.
And if by chance one of them doesn't, that one loses the hole. You see
it's the most dreadful bunker, and somehow they've got to get to the
bottom of it. Well--it would be quite unfair if only one of them went
there--so the non-slicer loses the hole."
The girl's face was dimpling gloriously. . . .
"Then when they've got there--he just takes her in his arms and kisses
her; and she kisses him. Just now and then she'll whisper, 'My dear, my
dear--but it's good to be alive,' but most times they just kiss. Then
they go on and finish their game. Except for that interlude they are
really very serious golfers."
"And when they've finished their game--what then?"
"They go back and have tea--a big fat tea with lots of scones and
Devonshire cream. And then, after tea, the man goes round to the garage
and gets the car. Just a jolly little two-seater that does fifty on the
level. The girl gets in and they drive away to where the purple heather
merges into the violet of the moors! And it's great. Perhaps they'll
come back to dinner, or perhaps they'll have it somewhere and come home
when the sun has set and the stars are gleaming above them like a
thousand silver lamps. They don't know what they're going to do when
they start--and they don't care. They'll just be together, and that's
enough. . . . Of course they're very foolish and inconsequent
people. . ."
"Ah! but they're not," she cried quickly. "They're just the wisest
people in the world. Only don't you see that one day after their golf
they drive on and on, and suddenly it seemed to the girl in grey that the
road was getting familiar? There was an old church she recognised and
lots of landmarks. And then suddenly they drive past some lodge gates,
and there--in the middle of the road--stands a dreadful man smoking a
cigar with a band round it. All the glory has gone from the drive, and
the girl feels numb and sick and mad with fury. . . ."
"But that was bad steering on the man's part," said Vane. "He ought to
have avoided that road."
"The girl could never avoid it, Derek," she answered sadly. "Even in the
bunker at the tenth she'd be seeing that cigar. . . ."
"I don't believe it," said Vane.
"I know it," answered the girl.
A sudden hail of "Joan" came ringing over the water, and she gave an
answering hail.
"There's Dad," she said. "I suppose we ought to be going. . . ."
With a sigh Vane rose and stood over her. "Come on," he laughed, holding
out his hand to help her up. "And then I'll untie the boat. . . ."
He swung her up beside him and for a moment they looked into one
another's eyes.
"I hope," he said, "that you'll be happy, my dear, so happy." And his
voice was very tender. . . .
They rowed back towards the boat-house, where Sir James was waiting for
them.
"Come and have tea, you two," he cried cheerily, and Joan waved her hand
at him. Then she looked at Vane.
"It's been a wonderful afternoon of make-believe," she said softly.
"I've just loved it. . . ." Vane said nothing, but just as they were
stepping out of the boat he took her arm gently.
"Are you quite certain, lady," he whispered, "that it must
be--make-believe? . . ."
For a while she stood motionless, and then she smiled "Why, of
course. . . . There's your beaten track to find, and there's She who
must be obeyed. And there's also. . . ."
"The cigar with the band round it." Vane's hand dropped to his side.
"Perhaps you're right. . . ."
They strolled together towards Sir James. And it was just before they
came within earshot that Vane spoke again. "Would you care to play the
game again, grey girl?"
"Why, yes," she said, "I think I would. . . . I think I would."