Tea--or, rather, the modern substitute for tea, which consistes of most
things except tea, from caviare sandwiches to strawberry ice, and
whisky-and-soda to iced coffee--had just been brought out when the two
returned to the lawn, and Mildred Brereton's guests had fallen upon it
with the most refreshingly healthy appetites, and were fluttering about
the tables like a school of gulls fishing. Every one, according to the
sensible modern plan, foraged privately and privateerly for himself, and
there were no rows of patient women agonizing for things to eat and
drink, until some man languidly brought them something they did not
want, instead of that which they desired. Nor, on the other hand, were
there rows of men parading slowly up the female line, like sightseers at
an exhibition, with teacups slipping and gliding over the saucers, and
buns being jerked from their plates by neighbouring elbows. Instead,
every one flocked to the tables, seized what he wanted, and retired
into corners to eat it. Anthony Maxwell in particular, who had a
wonderful gift for mimicry, was loading up with great care and solidity.
Something in his air might have reminded an observer of a steamer
coaling for a trip. He had had, in fact, a little conversation with both
Mrs. Brereton and Lady Ardingly during the afternoon.
"Yes, dear Mr. Anthony," Mildred had said. "You received my note, did
you not? And I am delighted you could come here to-day! Of course, it is
a dreadful thing to me to think that my little girl will be taken away
so soon. But that is what every mother has to go through. Dear me! it
seems only yesterday that she came into my room, a little toddling mite,
to announce that when she was grown up she was going to marry the groom,
because then she could always live among horses."
"Oh, that'll be all right," said Anthony. "She can have plenty of them."
"How generous of you to say that! You have not--ah--spoken to her yet?"
"No. I've been trying to all the afternoon, but I couldn't get an
opportunity."
"Dear Maud! She is--how shall I say it? But, anyhow, it is so
characteristic of her."
"She seemed to want to avoid me," said Anthony with a bluntness that
rather distressed Mrs. Brereton.
"Yes, it would seem like it," said she; "but indeed-- What I wanted to
say to you was this: You must be patient with her, and I expect you will
need a little perseverance. It is a rare thing, you know, to come and
see and conquer, like Julius Cæsar, or whoever it was. Dear Maud perhaps
scarcely knows her own mind. I am sure I do not know it. You see, she is
young, very young, and I do not think that hers is a nature that expands
very early."
The young man's rather heavy, commonplace face flushed; for the moment
it was lit up, as it were, by a flame from within.
"Oh, I'm not going to be impatient," he said. "And as for perseverance,
why, there's nothing I would not do, nor any number of years I would not
wait, to get her."
Mrs. Brereton looked at him critically for a half-moment. "Why, he's in
love!" she said to herself. Then aloud, "Dear Mr. Anthony! I am
convinced of it," she said. "And bear that in mind when you speak to
Maud. Also bear in mind that there is no marriage which either her
father or I so much desire. Ah, there is the Duchess of Bolton just
come! I must go and speak to her."
His interview with Lady Ardingly had been briefer, but, he felt, more to
the point.
"She will probably refuse you," said that lady. "In that case you had
better wait a month and ask her again. You have everything on your side
and everybody--except, perhaps, the girl. But eventually she will do
what is good for her. Here is a fourth. Let us play Bridge immediately."
This particular game of Bridge had rather taken it out of Anthony, for
he had been Lady Ardingly's partner, and had had the misfortune to
revoke in playing a _sans-à-tout_ hand. Her remarks to him were direct.
"You might just as well pick my pocket of twenty pounds," she said to
him, "as do that. Do you not see it so? By your gross carelessness you
have lost us the rubber, a mistake which one intelligent glance at your
hand would have avoided. Come, there are other pursuits, are there not,
in which you wish to be engaged? You will, perhaps, follow them with
better attention."
Then, seeing the young man's discomfiture, her admirable good-nature
returned. "Croquet, for instance," she added. "I hear you are a great
player. Ah! there is Lord Alston. No doubt he will make our fourth."
Maud, it is true, had spent the hours since lunch in flying before her
admirer, but her reasons, it must be confessed, were not those which one
would be disposed to think natural on the part of a young girl. There
was not, in fact, one atom of shyness or shirking about her; she had not
the least objection to hear impassioned speeches or blunt declarations,
whichever mode Anthony should choose to adopt, nor did the thought of
him in any way fill her with horror. She had listened very attentively
to her mother's advice when they drove down to Windsor earlier in the
week; she had also listened with the same consideration to Lady
Ardingly's far more convincing and sensible remarks when she had lunched
with her on Friday, and her only reason for refusing Anthony an
opportunity all the afternoon was that she really had not the slightest
idea whether she should say yes or no. She did not, as she had told her
mother, love him; she did not, either, dislike him. He was merely quite
indifferent to her, as, indeed, all men were. Men, in fact, as far as
she thought about them at all, seemed to her to be unattractive people;
she could not conceive what a girl should want with one permanently in
the house. They were for ever either putting tobacco or brandy into
their mouths or letting inane remarks out, and they stared at her in an
uncomfortable and incomprehensible manner. On the other hand, she knew
perfectly well that it was the natural thing for girls to marry; every
one always did it, and they were probably right. She supposed that she
also would ultimately marry, but was this--this utter absence of any
emotion--the correct thing? She was aware that tremblings and raptures
were in the world of printed things supposed to be the orthodox signals
flown by the parties engaged; she should be a creature of averted eyes
and deep blushes. But she did not feel the least inclined to either;
there was nothing in Anthony that would make her wish to avert her eyes,
nor, as far as she knew, did he ever say things which would make her
blush. He was simply indifferent to her, but so, for that matter, were
all men. Was she, then, to be a spinster? That was equally unthinkable.
There were other things as well. A great friend of hers, with whom she
had been accustomed to spend long days in the saddle, or in the company
of dogs in endless walks over moors, had been married only a month ago,
for no other reason, as far as Maud or Kitty Danefield herself knew, but
the one that every girl married if possible, that it was the natural
thing to do. Maud had seen her again only two days ago for the first
time since her marriage, and had found quite a different person. Kitty
had become a woman, radiantly happy, with an absorbing interest in life
which seemed quite to have eclipsed the loves of earlier days. She still
liked horses, dogs, great open country, Maud herself; but all these
things which had been the first ingredients of existence had gone into a
secondary place, and the one thing that made life now was her husband.
To Maud this was all perfectly incomprehensible--would Anthony, if she
accepted him, ever fill existence like that? She could not help feeling
that existence would be a much narrower thing if he did. Kitty, in fact,
had just arrived, and had rushed at Maud.
"Darling, I am so pleased to see you!" she said, "and we'll have a nice
long talk. Where's Arthur! Arthur is really too tiresome; he asked Tom
Liscombe to come down with us when I had counted on a nice quiet empty
carriage all to ourselves. He didn't want him, nor did I; but that is so
like Arthur, to do good-natured things from a sort of vague weakness. He
saw Tom, and asked him without thinking what he was doing. You look
rather careworn, Maud. What is it now?"
"Oh, come for a stroll, Kitty," said the other; "I want to talk."
"Very well; I must say good-bye to Arthur."
Maud laughed.
"Oh, you ridiculous person," she said; "you will be away ten minutes.
Would you like to make your will, too?"
"Well, if it's only ten minutes--oh, he's looking. There!" and she waved
a tiny morsel of a handkerchief to him.
Maud looked at her with grave attention.
"Now, I cannot understand that," she said.
"No, dear, of course not. You're not married. I should have thought it
as ridiculous as you before. By the way, Maud--oh, _that's_ why you look
careworn. Is it true you are going to marry Anthony Maxwell? Darling,
how nice, and _simply_ rolling!"
"You think that is important?" asked Maud.
"Why, of course. It's the only crumpled rose-leaf Arthur and I have. It
makes us quite miserable; there's always that little ghost in the
corner. Can we afford this? Can we spare the money for that? But you
haven't answered me. Is it true?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," said Maud.
Kitty laughed.
"You absurd creature!" she said; "you must know. Has he proposed to
you?"
"No, but he has told mother he wants to. And he has been stalking me all
the afternoon."
Kitty turned quickly back.
"He shall stalk you no longer," she said. "Really, Maud, you are
behaving very unfairly to him. If you are going to marry him, say so; if
not--well, if not, you will be a very foolish person, but still say so.
He has a mother, I know that, but really his mother matters very much
less than the man himself. He's all right, isn't he? Behaves nicely--I
mean, hasn't a vice about him--looks decent?"
"Moderately," said Maud.
"Oh, my dear, what do you want? Every one can't be an Adonis, and, as
the copybooks used to say, human nature is limited. I dare say he's not
a genius; well, no more are you. As for beauty, you've got enough for
two, and he's got money enough for three--baby, as well, do you see? Oh
yes, I am indelicate, I know, but it's far better than being delicate.
Being delicate never pays; on the other hand, you have to pay for it,
and I haven't got enough money for it. You are lucky, Maud."
"Why? I want to talk to you about it."
"My dear girl, there is nothing to say. You will be a fool if you don't
marry him, as I told you. There is simply nothing else to talk about. I
was in a state of blank indifference about Arthur before I married him.
My mother--and I bless her for it--absolutely obliged me to accept him.
So will yours do if she has any sense, and I am certain she has heaps.
Unless you are a visionary or a fanatic of some kind, you will be glad
to be married. Glad? Good gracious! it is much more than that."
She turned sharply on her heel, Maud following.
"Then, why are there so many unhappy marriages?" asked the latter.
"Ah, in books, only. They are there because the author does not know
what else to say. 'You can't write about happy marriages,' so an author
assured me. 'They are so dull. Happy people have no history.'"
Maud was silent a moment.
"You have changed very much, Kitty," she said at length.
"Thank goodness, I have! Oh, Maud, I don't mean to be nasty to you.
Those old days were really dear days. But one can't always remain a
girl, Maud. It is mercifully ordained that girls become women. And the
door by which they enter is marriage."
"It means all that?"
"All. More----"
Maud found herself struggling for utterance. The blush and the downcast
eye which she had thought Anthony could never have produced in her were
hers now.
"You mean a man--the fact of a man?" she said stammeringly.
Kitty laughed the laugh of a newly-married woman, which is as old as
Eve.
"Put it that way if you like," she said. "But there is another--the fact
of a woman."
"But I am content," she said almost piteously. "Why does everybody--you,
mother--want me to marry?"
"You have left out Anthony," remarked Kitty rigorously. "I and your
mother, because we are women; he, because he is a man."
They had come to the populated lawn again, and further intimate
conversation would next moment be impossible. Kitty turned to her
hurriedly.
"Oh, my dear, it is like having a tooth out," she said. "No doubt it is
a shock. But it no longer aches. There is Mr. Anthony; let him ask you,
anyhow. That is bare justice; and remember what I have said."
"I shall not forget it," said Maud.
Under no circumstances would Kitty have bitten out her tongue, so it
would be a mere figure of speech to say that she would have even been
inclined to had she known precisely what effect her volubility would
have had on her friend. But it is certain that she would sooner have
bitten it very hard--so that it hurt, in fact--could she have foreseen
in how opposite a direction to that intended her words had inclined her.
As it was, she left the two together in a small solitude encompassed by
company, and went to join her husband with a light heart and an
approving conscience--a delicious and rare combination. Anthony, at any
rate, was primed and ready.
"Do take me to see the rose-garden," he said to Maud, with a _banalité_
that seemed to him unavoidable. He was quite aware of it, and regretted
the necessity, for, to do him justice, he had tried many other lures
that afternoon. "I hear it is quite beautiful," he went on; "and Mrs.
Brereton promised me you should show it me after tea. And it is after
tea," he added.
Maud was slightly taller than he, and had the right to drop her eyelids
a little as she looked at him. Of the adventitious advantage she took
more than her justifiable measure, and beheld the back of his
collar-stud.
"By all means," she said. "A promise is a promise, whoever gave it."
"You are rather hard on me," observed Anthony.
"Hard? Surely not."
"Well, on your mother, then."
Maud thought a moment.
"It is natural for you to think so," she said, "since she agrees with
you."
They had left the lawn behind them, and threaded a dusky lane set in
rhododendrons. Anthony stopped.
"She agrees with me," he said. "In one thing, anyhow, she agrees with
me--we both love you."
In spite of herself Maud gave him a round of internal applause. She was
still so indifferent that she could easily judge him, as if he had been
an actor on a stage. Outwardly, with the tongue she could say nothing,
and stood, having walked on a pace or two, with her back to him. His
voice made her turn round.
"Maud, Maud!" he said. "Maud, they were crying and calling."
"Ah!" she said, with a sudden interest, "you learned that."
He shook his head.
"I read it three months ago," he said. "It has stuck in my memory.
Because everything cries 'Maud, Maud!' to me."
The blush and the averted eye were hers. Quite unconsciously she began
to know what Lady Ardingly had meant--what Kitty had meant.
"I am sorry," she said. "I ought never to have come here with you. I
thought I should laugh at you merely. I do not laugh; I would sooner
cry."
"Thank you for that," said he. "I understand that you do not accept my
devotion. What I do not understand is whether you definitely refuse it.
Do you refuse it?"
"Do not press me to answer you," she said.
"You postpone your answer!"
"Please."
* * * * *
Meantime dusk had begun to fall, the sounds of rejoicing Cockneys came
more faintly from the river, the glow in the western sky faded into
saffron, and overhead the vault of velvet blue grew infinitely more
infinite. Birds chuckled and scurried through the bushes, bats extended
angled wings for the preliminary trials of their nameless ghoulish
errands, a nightingale bubbled suddenly, and a large yellow star swung
into sight over the dim edge of the earth. But the lawn itself, save for
a fine carpet of dew, that was spread without hands on the close-napped
turf, reflected none of the evening influences. Servants hurried
noiselessly about lighting the lamps that hung in the trees, and soon
the tents where dinner was laid began to shimmer with white linen and
gleam with silver. Jack was back from his golf, and Mrs. Brereton from
an extremely short walk (for she had been recommended plenty of
exercise), a few people had left to dine in town, but more people
arrived from town to dine here, and Andrew Brereton, having succeeded in
wresting four shillings and sixpence from the reluctant Mr. Maxwell,
felt that he had earned his dinner. And as night became deeper, the
animation of the party grew louder and their laughter more frequent; the
moon and the stars everlastingly set in heaven were to them but the
whitewash of the ceiling of the rooms where they dined, the trees and
infinite soft spaces of the dusk but the paper on the walls of their
restaurant, the miracle of the dewy lawn a carpet for unheeding feet.
Wine and food concerned them perhaps most, but in a place hardly
inferior must have been put the charms of screaming and scandalous
conversation. Dinner, in fact, was a great success. By midnight all the
guests for the day who were not staying over the Sunday had left, and
the stables, which had been a packed mass of broughams, victorias,
dogcarts, motor-cars, and bicycles, were once more empty; and Lady
Ardingly, whose rubber had most unjustifiably been interrupted by Mrs.
Brereton's adieus to her guests, picked up her hand again with some
acidity.
"Now, perhaps, we shall get on with our Bridge," she said. "I have
declared no trumps. Nobody doubles! That is a very masterly inactivity
on our adversaries' part."
The four consisted of the two Breretons, Lady Ardingly, and Jack Alston;
at another table were four more, who, however, abandoned their game at
about half-past one, again interrupting Lady Ardingly with their
superfluous good-nights, for she was having a very good night indeed.
Marie and Maud Brereton had long ago gone to bed, but the other four
still played on, in silence for the most part. Occasionally the dummy
rose, and refreshed his inner self with something from a side-table, and
from time to time the note of a cigarette would sound crisply, as it
were, on the soft air of the night. At last a strange change began to
pass over the sky, from which the moon had now long set, hardly visible
there at first, but making the faces of the players look suddenly white
and wan. Then the miracle grew; the dark blue of the sky brightened into
dove colour, the stars grew pale, and a little wind stirred in the
trees.
"You played that abominably, dear Mildred," said Lady Ardingly. "We
should have saved it if you had had any sense. What does that make?"
She pulled her cloak round her neck as Jack added it up.
"The night is growing a little chilly," she said.
Mildred, who had been following the figures, looked up.
"The night?" she said. "Why what is happening? It is day, is it not?"
"Very likely," said Lady Ardingly. "How much is it, Jack? Never mind,
tell me to-morrow. I will pay you to-morrow?"
Jack rattled his pencil-case between his teeth.
"Thirty pounds exactly, Lady Ardingly," he said.
They rose and walked across the lawn towards the house, Jack sauntering
a little behind, his hands in his pockets, smiling to himself. Mildred
dropped behind with him, the other two walking on a few paces ahead.
"The most odious hour in the twenty-four!" said Lady Ardingly, looking
ghastly in the dawn.
"Very trying," said Andrew.
"But we have spent the night very well," said the other, as they parted
at the foot of the stairs. "A charming Sunday, Mr. Brereton. You and
Mildred are great benefactors!"
And she hurried upstairs, conscious that she was looking awful, and, in
that hour of low vitality which comes with the dawn, not wishing to
appear thus before anybody, however insignificant.