When she was quite sure that he had gone--quite gone, beyond the
likelihood of another return to say something that he had omitted to say
or to take back something that he had already said, she threw herself
back on a sofa and yawned ostentatiously--almost insultingly at her
own reflection in a mirror that hung in the centre of one of the silk
panels--and then it seemed that it was for the first time in her
life that she perceived how curious was the design of the mirror. The
silvered glass was a Florentine one and at one curved edge it was cut
with a charming intaglio of a boy chasing a butterfly. On the opposite
curve there was a girl with a bird on her finger. Butterflies and birds
were cut all over the glass except in the centre. The frame of the
mirror was of beaten silver, and the design was that of a number of
cupids bending, as it were, over the brink of the glass to see the face
that it reflected. And some were fixing their arrows in their little
silver bows to shoot at the glass and its reflection.
She lay back and laughed quite merrily at the thought that often as she
had looked at that charming work of art, she had never before noticed
the significance of the design. It interested her so greatly just now
that she actually rose from her sofa and stood before it, examining
its infinity of detail for several minutes. Then she threw herself once
again back among her cushions and laughed.
She had never before had such a funny interview with any one in all her
life, she thought, and the funny part of it all was to be found in the
seriousness of the man. If he had meant to be jocular he would have been
a dead failure. But he had been desperately serious from the moment he
had entered the room, and had gone on talking gravely as if he had been
talking sense and not nonsense.
That was the funny part of the business.
The aid of Mr. Richmond had never been needed to make her aware of the
fact that the novel writers who produce the greatest amount of nonsense
are those who write seriously--who take themselves seriously and talk
about having a message to deliver. Such, she was well aware, are the
novel writers who perish after a year or two, for the only imperishable
quality in a novel is wit. Wit is the boric acid that makes a novel
“keep,” she knew. But here was a live man coming to her with a message
to deliver to her ears, and although he took himself quite seriously
she had not found him dull--certainly not dull as the novels with the
“message” are dull. What he had to say to her had surprised her at the
outset of his interview with her and had kept her excited until he had
gone away--nay, longer, for what he had said to her on his return after
an absence of perhaps ten seconds, was, she thought, the most exciting
part of her afternoon.
But after all he had talked such nonsense as a child who knew nothing of
the world would talk. All the time that he was talking to her she felt
that she was listening to the prattle of a boy child asking her if she
would play at being sweethearts, and laying down certain rules of
the game--decreeing that if he were to get tired of having her for a
sweetheart, she must not get cross with him for leaving her, and at the
same time, with a high sense of fairness, affirming that if she tired
of him and told him to go back to the nursery he would not beat her with
his fists.
Yes, he had talked just as any little boy in a sailor suit, and with
a little bucket in one hand and a little spade in the other might talk
while the day was young, and his gravity had made the scene very funny
to her.
But then the fact of her thinking of the resemblance between him and the
little boy, caused her to recall what he had said about treating him as
gently as a baby should be treated. Yes, he was not to be looked on as a
lover, but only as the rough material that might eventually shape itself
into a lover. This was one of the rules of the game at which he wanted
her to play, and it was quite worthy of him.
At first she had felt angry with him--slightly angry; but then she felt
that she would be a fool if she were to be seriously angry with a little
boy for asking her to play at being grown up and selling tea and sugar
with him in a shop made of oyster-shells. She had then only become
amused at the way he talked--she was amused at it still, as she lay back
among her cushions.
She was glad on the whole that she had not snubbed him--that she had
even taken him seriously; and she thought that it was this reflection
upon the extent of her consideration for his feelings--that _amour
propre_ which children hold so dear--that made her feel so pleased as
she did.
Although she knew that the young man had talked nonsense--making an
absurd proposal to her, and making it too on a purely unintellectual
basis; as if she, a girl born in an atmosphere of intellectuality and
breathing of this atmosphere into her life, could listen for a moment to
a proposal made to the emotional and not to the intellectual side of her
nature!--although he had talked this nonsense, still she could not deny
that she felt pleased at the thought of it all. The air somehow seemed
fresher about her, and she breathed more freely. Had none of those
writers with a message suggested that an atmosphere saturated with
intellectuality is like Rimmel’s shop on a spring day: one longs to get
out once more into the pure scentless air of Nature’s own breathing?
She felt all the first sweet satisfaction which comes from a good
romp on the sands with a child who, though it has not conversed on
intellectual topics, has brought one into the open air--into the air
that blows across the sands from the sea.
And she was glad that she had not snubbed him when he sneered at that
triumph of the intellect known as Platonic friendship. She was happy to
think that she was an exponent of that actuality of intellectuality,
and that in his hands it had become a great force tending towards the
civilisation of man.
To be sure civilisation has always been opposed to Nature in its
operations, and the best civilisation is that which forms the most
satisfactory compromise with Nature. She knew all this, and a good deal
more in the same line of elementary biology, and it was just because she
had proofs of the success of her plans of Platonic friendship she was
disposed to regard it as one of the greatest of civilising forces.
All the same she felt glad that she had refrained from severity towards
him when he had sneered at this force. She knew that if she had done so,
she would now feel ill at ease. If a baby boy jeers at the precession of
the Equinoxes--a phrase which it cannot even pronounce--an adult would
surely feel ill at ease at rebuking it for its ignorance. But Amber
Severn felt that she had no reason for self-reproach in the matter of
her interview with young Lord Lull-worth.
But then she was led to do a foolish thing, for she began comparing
Lord Lullworth with the other young men who had been visiting her in
the fulness of their disinterested friendship for her. He was the best
looking of them all, she knew. He stood up straighter and he looked at
her straighter in the face than the best of them had done. If it came to
a fight....
And hereupon this young woman who had been born in, and who had lived
in, an atmosphere of intellectuality was led to think of the chances
that the young man who had just gone from her would have in a rough and
tumble tussle with the three others. She felt herself, curiously enough,
taking his part in this hustle and tussle--she actually became his
backer, and was ready to convince any one who might differ from her that
he could lick three of them--that horrid word of the butcher’s boy was
actually in her mind as she thought over the possible contest, though
why she should think over anything of the sort she would have had
difficulty in explaining to the satisfaction even of herself. But
somehow thinking of the men altogether--they were five of them all
told--made a comparison between them inevitable, and as Lord Lullworth
had frankly admitted that he was not intellectual she had, out of a
sense of fair play to him, drawn the comparison from an unintellectual
standpoint.
This explanation--it is not wholly plausible--never occurred to her and
she was therefore left in a condition bordering on wonderment when she
pulled herself up, so to speak, in her attempt to witness the exciting
finish of the contest which had suggested itself to her when she
involuntarily compared the young man who had lately stood before her,
with the other four.
She was startled, and gave a little laugh of derision at the foolish
exuberance of her own fancy; and then she became angry, and because she
felt that she had made a fool of herself, she called Lord Lullworth a
fool--not in a whisper, but quite out loud.
“He is a fool--a fool--and I never want to see him again!” she said.
And then the servant opened the door and announced Mr. Pierce Winwood,
and withdrew and closed the door.
She sat upright on the sofa, staring at him, her left hand pressing the
centre of a cushion of Aubusson tapestry, and her right one a big pillow
of amber brocade.
She stared at him.
He gave a rather sheepish laugh, and twirled his cane till the handle
caught his gloves which he held in his hand, and sent them flying. He
gave another laugh picking them up.
She was bewildered. Matters were becoming too much for her. Had he
actually been lunching in the house that day or had she dreamt it? It
seemed to her that only an hour had passed since she had said good-bye
to him, and yet here he was entering as a casual visitor might enter.
She rose and mechanically held out her hand to him.
“How do you do?” she said. “How do you do? A warm afternoon, is it not?
You look warm.”
And so he did. He looked extremely warm.
“I am afraid that I have surprised you,” said he. “I’m so sorry. But
when a chap is bound on making an ass of himself there’s really no
holding him back.”
She felt her face becoming as warm as his appeared to be; for the
terrible thought flashed upon her:
“This man too has come to me to offer himself as the rough material from
which a lover may one day be made.”
It seemed to her that there was any amount of rough material of lovers
available within easy reach this particular afternoon.
“After leaving here an hour ago,” he said, “I had a rather important
call to make, so I didn’t make it but went for a long walk instead--I
think I must have walked four or five miles and I don’t think I kept my
pace down as I should have, considering the day it is.”
“Well?” she said when he paused. “Well, Mr. Winwood?”
“Well, you see I was bent on thinking out something, and I thought it
out, and I have come back to you, you see, because you are, I think,
disposed to be friendly to me and I know that you are her closest
friend--that is why I ventured to come back to you.”
“Yes--yes,” she said slowly and with a liberal space between each
utterance of the word. “Yes; but--what is the matter? What have I to say
to--to--whatever it is?”
“I must really try to tell you,” said he. “Yes, the fact is, I hope
you will not think me impudent, but it is a serious matter to me. I
have--that is, I wish to--Miss Severn, I am, as you know, a stranger
here. I do not know many people, and I have no means of finding
out--except through you--what I should very much like to know. You see I
don’t want to make too great a fool of myself altogether; that is why
I hope you will not think me impudent when I ask you if you can tell me
if--if--Miss West is engaged to marry some one. You can well believe,
I am sure, that when I saw her for the first time--when I saw her
here to-day, it seemed to me quite impossible that such a girl--so
beautiful--so gracious--so womanly, should remain free. It seemed quite
impossible that no one should wish--but of course though every one who
sees her must feel how--how she stands alone--she would not lightly
think of giving her promise--in short--I---- Yes, I believe that I have
said all that I wished to say. I have said it badly, I know; but perhaps
I have made myself moderately clear to you--clear enough for you to give
me an answer.”
He had seated himself close to her and had bent forward, turning his
hat over and over between his hands and showing himself to be far from
self-possessed while stammering out his statement.
But Amber, although she had never before been made the _confidante_ of
a man, and although she had just passed through a curious experience of
her own, felt, so soon as it dawned on her that the man beside her
was in love with Josephine, both interested and became more than
sympathetic.
The pleasure she experienced so soon as she became aware of the fact
that it was not to herself he was about to offer himself as the rough
material of a lover, after the fashion of the day, caused her to feel
almost enthusiastic as she said:
“You have expressed yourself admirably, Mr. Win-wood; and I can tell
you at once that Josephine West is not engaged to marry any one--that
is--well, I think I am justified in speaking so decidedly, for if she
had promised to marry any one I am certain that she would tell me of it
before any one else in the world.”
He rose and held out his hand to her, saying:
“Thank you, Miss Severn--thank you. I knew that I should be safe in
coming to you in this matter, you have shown yourself to be so kind--so
gracious. You can understand how my position in this country is
not quite the same as that of the men who have lived here all their
lives--who are in your set and who hear of every incident as it occurs.
I thought it quite possible that she might... well, I hope you don’t
think me impudent.”
“I do not indeed,” she said, “I feel that you have done me great honour,
and I think that you are--you are--manly. I think, you know, that there
is a good deal of manliness about men--more than I thought, and I tell
you that I always did think well of men. I believe that there is a great
future awaiting them.”
“I hope that your optimism will be rewarded,” said he. “Of one thing I
am sure, and that is that a great future awaits one man: the man who is
lucky enough to be loved by you. Good-bye. You have placed me in such a
position as makes it inevitable for me to take the rosiest view of all
the world.”
“Even of the man whom I shall love? Well, you are an optimist.
Good-bye.”