At this moment we heard on the terrace a loud harsh cry. “It’s the great
peacock!” said Miss Searle, stepping to the window and passing out while
I followed her. Below us, leaning on the parapet, stood our appreciative
friend with his arm round the neck of the setter. Before him on
the grand walk strutted the familiar fowl of gardens--a splendid
specimen--with ruffled neck and expanded tail. The other dog had
apparently indulged in a momentary attempt to abash the gorgeous biped,
but at Searle’s summons had bounded back to the terrace and leaped upon
the ledge, where he now stood licking his new friend’s face. The scene
had a beautiful old-time air: the peacock flaunting in the foreground
like the genius of stately places; the broad terrace, which flattered
an innate taste of mine for all deserted walks where people may have sat
after heavy dinners to drink coffee in old Sevres and where the stiff
brocade of women’s dresses may have rustled over grass or gravel; and
far around us, with one leafy circle melting into another, the timbered
acres of the park. “The very beasts have made him welcome,” I noted as
we rejoined our companion.
“The peacock has done for you, Mr. Searle,” said his cousin, “what he
does only for very great people. A year ago there came here a great
person--a grand old lady--to see my brother. I don’t think that since
then he has spread his tail as wide for any one else--not by a dozen
feathers.”
“It’s not alone the peacock,” said Searle. “Just now there came slipping
across my path a little green lizard, the first I ever saw, the lizard
of literature! And if you’ve a ghost, broad daylight though it be,
I expect to see him here. Do you know the annals of your house, Miss
Searle?”
“Oh dear, no! You must ask my brother for all those things.”
“You ought to have a collection of legends and traditions. You ought to
have loves and murders and mysteries by the roomful. I shall be ashamed
of you if you haven’t.”
“Oh Mr. Searle! We’ve always been a very well-behaved family,” she quite
seriously pleaded. “Nothing out of the way has ever happened, I think.”
“Nothing out of the way? Oh that won’t do! We’ve managed better than
that in America. Why I myself!”--and he looked at her ruefully enough,
but enjoying too his idea that he might embody the social scandal or
point to the darkest drama of the Searles. “Suppose I should turn out
a better Searle than you--better than you nursed here in romance and
extravagance? Come, don’t disappoint me. You’ve some history among you
all, you’ve some poetry, you’ve some accumulation of legend. I’ve been
famished all my days for these things. Don’t you understand? Ah you
can’t understand! Tell me,” he rambled on, “something tremendous. When
I think of what must have happened here; of the lovers who must have
strolled on this terrace and wandered under the beeches, of all the
figures and passions and purposes that must have haunted these walls!
When I think of the births and deaths, the joys and sufferings, the
young hopes and the old regrets, the rich experience of life--!” He
faltered a moment with the increase of his agitation. His humour of
dismay at a threat of the commonplace in the history he felt about him
had turned to a deeper reaction. I began to fear however that he was
really losing his head. He went on with a wilder play. “To see it all
called up there before me, if the Devil alone could do it I’d make a
bargain with the Devil! Ah Miss Searle,” he cried, “I’m a most unhappy
man!”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” she almost wailed while I turned half away.
“Look at that window, that dear little window!” I turned back to see him
point to a small protruding oriel, above us, relieved against the purple
brickwork, framed in chiselled stone and curtained with ivy.
“It’s my little room,” she said.
“Of course it’s a woman’s room. Think of all the dear faces--all of them
so mild and yet so proud--that have looked out of that lattice, and of
all the old-time women’s lives whose principal view of the world has
been this quiet park! Every one of them was a cousin of mine. And you,
dear lady, you’re one of them yet.” With which he marched toward her and
took her large white hand. She surrendered it, blushing to her eyes
and pressing her other hand to her breast. “You’re a woman of the past.
You’re nobly simple. It has been a romance to see you. It doesn’t matter
what I say to you. You didn’t know me yesterday, you’ll not know me
to-morrow. Let me to-day do a mad sweet thing. Let me imagine in you the
spirit of all the dead women who have trod the terrace-flags that lie
here like sepulchral tablets in the pavement of a church. Let me say I
delight in you!”--he raised her hand to his lips. She gently withdrew it
and for a moment averted her face. Meeting her eyes the next instant I
saw the tears had come. The Sleeping Beauty was awake.
There followed an embarrassed pause. An issue was suddenly presented by
the appearance of the butler bearing a letter. “A telegram, Miss,” he
announced.
“Oh what shall I do?” cried Miss Searle. “I can’t open a telegram.
Cousin, help me.”
Searle took the missive, opened it and read aloud: “_I shall be home to
dinner. Keep the American._”