BOOK II -- SANCHIA AT WANLESS HALL

I

A telegram was handed to her as she came in from the garden, her

broad-brimmed straw hat in her hand, and a bunch of fritillaries nodding

in her blouse. That dates and places her at once: the time was April,

and she was fond of curious flowers. She stood in the doorway to get the

sunset glow upon the missive, and was herself ensanguined and enhanced,

a sunny-haired, low-breasted young woman of middle height, rather

faintly coloured, wholesome to see, with a bowed upper lip, and clear,

grey-blue eyes of extreme directness and candour. A trick of looking

you full, of considering you and her answer together, she had--a mild,

steady beam, a radiance within the orb which told of a hidden glory. Her

brows were level, eyebrows arched; her bust, though set like Aphrodite's

of Melos, was full. The curving corners of the bow of her lips assured

her the possession, even when she was most serious, of a lurking smile.

Taking off her gardening gloves that she might break the red envelope,

she disclosed a pair of fine, white, nervous hands, and pointed fingers

which wore no rings.

The address, which she was careful to read before she tore the envelope,

was--

Miss Percival, Wanless, Felsboro'.

Opening then, she read as follows:--

Home to-morrow seven people Ingram.

If she frowned slightly, it was a mere approach of the fine eyebrows

to each other. She certainly smiled--wisely and meditatively, without

showing her teeth. She touched her chin--a rounded, full chin--with the

telegram, as she looked up at the maid who brought it.

“I must see Mrs. Benson about this. It's from Mr. Ingram.”

“Yes, Miss Percival.”

A friendly desire to share the puzzle was now manifest in the clear

eyes.

“You see, Minnie, it might mean one of two things, and I am not quite

sure which of them it does mean.” She looked again at the message with

amused interest; but one could not have said whether she was amused

at her interest, or interested in her amusement. That was part of Miss

Percival's charm, that she was always baffling you.

But Minnie, the maid, was demure and monotonous under the attack of

friendly desires. “No, Miss Percival,” she said, and added, “I am sure

I couldn't say.” She stood aside from the doorway as the young lady

entered the billiard-room, saying, as she went, “Ask Mrs. Benson to come

to my room, Minnie, please; and tell Frodsham I should like to see him

directly he comes to-morrow morning.”

She heard Minnie's “Very well, Miss Percival,” as she disappeared,

smiling still, and with a slight heightening of colour. When her colour

rose, it rose evenly, flooding her face and neck with the dawn-hue.

There were no patches or streaks of flame; she showed, as it were,

incandescent.

She crossed the hall in the deepening dusk, a fine, littered room, where

a great log-fire revealed the tall portraits of ladies and gentleman

of long ago--sportsmen with spaniels at their feet, general officers in

scarlet, pointing through smoke the direction of the enemy, a judge in

ermine and full bottomed wig, a lady in white satin leaning against a

broken column in a park, and backed by a brewing thunderstorm; and as

she went her way gave a couple of glances to right and left, picked up a

_Bradshaw_ from a side-table, stooped to put a tiger-skin straight. She

continued down a long corridor, swinging her hat, and entered an open

doorway at the extreme end. By the way she tossed the hat on to a chair

and stirred the crackling logs with the point of her shoe, it was to be

supposed that she was in her demesne. Standing with a foot on the fender

she presently fell into a reverie, and presently reopened and re-read

her telegram. Certainly she was smiling, and certainly her colour was

enhanced.

The room, though business-like, was feminine. It had a Chippendale

bureau between the windows, its pigeon-holes stuffed with papers; but

there were flowers upon it, and elsewhere many photographs, and pictures

evidently chosen by the tenant. The _Dante_ from the Bargello was one,

the three headless _Fates_ of the Parthenon another; the _Hermes_ and

the _Sophocles_, all in autogravure. It had a piano and a small bookcase

containing the poets in green morocco, a uniform set. Elsewhere, in a

larger bookcase, were miscellaneous volumes, by no means all novels,

though novels there were. One shelf was filled with household books:

cookery, bee-keeping, poultry, the _Dog in Health and Disease_, the

horse, the flower-garden, _Botany, British Edible Fungi_, the _World of

Vegetables_, were some of the subjects treated of. Below the bookcase

was a row of japanned tin boxes, carefully lettered in white paint.

House Accounts, Garden Accounts, Stable Accounts, one read. A fourth

bore the words “Wood Sales and Miscellaneous.”

If you were alone, waiting in the room, you would glance at the

photographs perched about, like alighting butterflies, upon piano and

mantelshelf and occasional table. You would pass over, I believe,

the children on ponies and in sailor suits, that elderly, ample lady,

brooched and in black, beaming under the status of Grandmamma, that

gaitered gentleman with a square-topped felt hat upon his head and

grizzled whiskers below his ears, in favour of a group of five girls

in black muslin and lace, sisters evidently, prosperously together, an

uncommonly happy five. They look on good terms with themselves and with

each other. They look frankly at you out of the frame--and how they

must have dazzled the photographer with their five pair of bright,

uncompromising eyes! Hands rest easily upon familiar shoulders, elbows

on knees. One of them smiles outright, two are very ready to smile; one

is more serious, as becomes the eldest of five; and one is round-cheeked

and solemn--the baby.

Miss Percival and her sisters, it's clear. One can't mistake the rounded

chin, the level brows, the promise of womanhood. Women should always be

photographed in evening dress if, like the Misses Percival, they have

nothing to hide. But now to pick out our Miss Percival. You will observe

that the young ladies' names are neatly printed beneath their persons.

Even if I were sure of dates, I should not insist upon the serious one.

So far as I can judge, the photograph is some eight or ten years old. I

go by the style of hair-dressing which it shows, and by the name of the

photographer, who signs from Wigmore Street. He is out of date; fashion

has deserted him. Then that grave, watchful young goddess, who sits

enthroned with her nymphs about her, must be a great deal older than our

lady of this room, of the doubtful smile and friendly desires. She has

the sedate air of eight-and-twenty, and by this time must be thirty-six

or even more. She is Philippa, anyhow, we read. Who comes next? Here is

Hawise, standing behind her of the throne and the centre, with a hand on

her bare shoulder. She is laughing, sleepily; she is distinctly pretty,

but distinctly, also, fat. She cannot be the owner of this room.

There's a taste for names in the Percival family: we have Philippa,

Hawise. Now for the seated pair, one on either side of Philippa: they

are Melusine, who has a long neck and a very demure look, and a great

deal of hair, and Victoria, who, having just tossed back her head, lifts

her chin and glimmers at you through half-shut eyes. Her lips laugh

snugly at some mischief meditating. Neither of these can be our lady,

who must therefore be the last and youngest, this child of eighteen

or so, round-cheeked, round-eyed and serious, with critical lids, like

those of the Farnese Hera, and a beautiful mouth: Sanchia-Josepha,

crouched on the floor at the feet of Philippa. A charming bevy of

maidens--Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Victoria, Sanchia-Josepha; ten

years ago happily sisters and rich in promise, looking out boldly at the

veiled years ahead of them. Ten years ago? Call it eight, and you make

our Miss Percival, say, six-and-twenty by this time.

There are many other photographs--girls and women, most of them; but

here is a man, dignified by a place apart upon the bureau. He occupies

one side of it by himself, balanced by the sisters at the other. A

youngish man in yeomanry uniform he appears only in torso. He has the

smooth head of a soldier, and rather a low, but very square, forehead.

His eyes are smallish, and set deep. They look to be grey, light grey,

but may be light blue. He has a good nose, high-bridged, large, thin,

and practically straight. Such noses are seldom perfectly straight, and

his is not. I observe that he has curled his moustache with the tongs,

so that it is well away from his upper lip. If I had been he I should

not have done that. It is too much trouble--and if a man takes pains

about his toilette, those pains ought not to be evident. Moreover, the

mouth is by no means this young man's best feature. There is a twist,

the hint of a snarl in the upper lip. The lower protrudes. The gentleman

is the least in life underhung. Consider his chin. It has the jut of

the Hapsburgs', of Charles the Fifth's, not pronounced by any means,

but undoubtedly there. Firmness, or perhaps obstinacy, hard judgment, an

uneven temper, a leaning to autocracy, I read in this portrait. There is

no signature, nothing to tell you who he is. Certainly, no Percival.

I call your attention to one more photograph, in marked distinction to

others of your notice. Those were, in every sense, full--dress affairs;

this one, in all senses, undress. It is the work of an amateur, you

can see at once--small, rather blurred to begin with, not perfectly

focussed, and fading now towards the end of all such gear. It represents

a bareheaded young lady in a white gown pinned very high. She is

standing in a pond, with the water well over her knees. One hand keeps

her balance with a pole, the other grasps a streamer of water-weed.

Floating beyond her upon some kind of raft is a man, bareheaded also, in

a white sweater with a rolling collar. His face is shadowed--you can see

that his hair, black and straight, falls over his eyes. He is raking up

the weed with his hand, his arm bare to the shoulder. Below is written,

in a round, sprawling hand, “To Sanchia from Percy.” Both the workers

are intent upon their task, with no idea that they are posing. The girl

has a Greek face, and a very fine pair of legs heedlessly displayed. The

man is as thin as a gypsy. Out of the dark in which his face is hidden

gleam his white teeth. A classical, rather than romantic scene. The

absence of draperies suggest it; but the absence of self-consciousness

is conclusive.

But I keep Miss Percival too long at the fender. She had been standing

there for some minutes after her entry, first re-reading her telegram,

next stroking her chin with it. She was thoughtful still, and still

smiling. Once she looked over her shoulder through the window to the

dying day, and lightly sighed. The time was April's end, and had

been squally, with violent storms; but the last onslaughts of the

north-wester had routed the rain-clouds. The day was dying under a clear

saffron sky, and a thrush piped its mellow elegy. Miss Percival heard

him, and listened, smiling with her lips, and with her eyes also which

the serene light soothed. Her lips barely moved, just relaxed their

firm embrace, but no more. She held the light gratefully with her eyes,

seemed unwilling to lose a moment of it, wistful to be still out of

doors. Again she lightly sighed, and presently resumed her downward

gazing at the fire.

Knuckles quavered at the door. She straightened herself, turned, and

called out definitely, “Come in.” Mrs. Benson stood before her, vast,

massive, black-gowned, cloudy for trouble, a cook.

There was instantly to be observed in Miss Percival's lifted head and

eyes the same frank appeal for interchange of sentiments as had been

manifested to Minnie the maid. Her brows were smoothed out, her smile

became less dubious; her intention to be friendly was deliberately

expressed. But truth will have it that, just as before, Mrs. Benson's

guard turned out at the same moment, as at a signal. To vary the figure,

her vedettes, in touch with the advancers, fell back upon the main body.

If the young lady perceived this she did not cease to be amiably

disposed. “Oh, Mrs. Benson,” she said, “I've had a telegram.”

Mrs. Benson, with strict non-committal, lifted her eyebrows to “Well,

well!” It was as if she implied that such things were to be expected in

a world full of trouble. “So I hear, Miss Percival,” she grimly said.

“It's from Mr. Ingram, you know.”

“Ah, well--” Mrs. Benson could have been heard to sigh; but among the

many things which Miss Percival chose to ignore, this sort of thing was

one. Trouble to her, always, was a signal which braced the nerves and

sinews.

“It's to say--but I think you had better read it.” It was held out

unfalteringly, while Mrs. Benson dived for, opened, wiped, tested, and

fixed her spectacles. These operations concluded, it was received as

might have been a dangerous explosive.

Punctuating as she went, Mrs. Benson read, _“Home to-morrow--seven

people--Ingram.”_ Then she looked, confirmed in her omens, over the rim

of her spectacles. “Seven people, Miss Percival! A house-party! And, as

you may say, at a moment's notice. Dear, dear, dear!”

Miss Percival remained cheerful. “Oh, I don't read it like that,” she

said, went behind Mrs. Benson, and read over her shoulder, pointing

the words with a pencil still wet from her mouth. “'Home to-morrow,

seven--with people--Ingram.' That's what it must mean, of course.” She

spoke wooingly, but Mrs. Benson was not to be won.

“Then, why does he say 'Seven people,' Miss Percival? Why does he say

that?”

“But he doesn't, according to me.” She laughed. “He is telling us the

time of his train. How could we meet him and his people if he didn't?”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Benson, heavily prepared for the worst, “how could we?

That's where it is, you see. But of course he wouldn't think of _us_.”

“But he does, you know. He has. He says that he will have people with

him. That is to prepare us.” Mrs. Benson's fist crashed into the paper.

“How many people, Miss Percival? How many people? Why, seven, of course?

What else could it be? And where's the fish to come from for seven

people? And what about maids and valets? Does he count up the likes of

them? He's not Mr. Ingram if he does. Not he! Nor his father before him.

And what's Frodsham going to do about carriage-room for seven--and the

servants as well--and the luggage, and all? Dogs, very likely, dogs and

cats, and parrots. Who knows? I've seen 'em bring scritch-owls and

hawks on their wrists before now. Oh, they'll do anything, some of

'em--anything to be looked at. That's what it is; they want looking at.

And I'd look at 'em if I had my way!”

Mrs. Benson, shining with indignant heat, had to be pacified. She

required much tact, the exercise of a low and musical voice. It cooed

upon her like a dove's. Miss Percival used her hands, too, and in the

end had one of them on Mrs. Benson's shoulder. The charm worked. Dinner

should be cooked for five or six; Frodsham should meet the seven-four

from London with the omnibus and luggage-cart. There would be no dogs at

this time of year. Parrots were urged upon her again, but tentatively.

She chuckled them away, musically, with real relish for the picture.

She was sure there would be no parrots. Now she must see about the

bedrooms--but Mrs. Benson peered round into her glowing face.

“And what about your supper, Miss Percival? It's just upon ready. And

there's a sweet-bread.”

Miss Percival almost caressed the ridiculous good soul. Her arm remained

about her shoulder, her hand touched it. “How nice of you! I'll go and

get ready at once. Then I'll see what rooms we had better have. Wasn't

it lucky we did the drawing-rooms last week?”

Gloom gathered again. Mrs. Benson thought that some people didn't

deserve their luck. It was clear to whom she referred; certainly not

to Miss Percival, for instance. But the young lady, with really

extraordinary simplicity, replied that surely Mr. Ingram deserved credit

for having well-chosen his ministers. “Yourself,” she said, “for the

kitchen, and me for the hall.” She exploded this little bomb with some

heightening of colour.

Mrs. Benson, glancing at her sideways, observed the blush, and was

scared. She blinked. Miss Percival's blush deepened.

In the awkward pause that ensued the friendly hand was about to be

removed, when Mrs. Benson, with an effort which did honour to her

resources, said, “We all have our troubles, Miss Percival, else we

shouldn't be here, as the Bible says. The good Book! Well for them as

read therein. Now, only this afternoon Mr. Menzies was talking to me

about things at large, and he says, 'Mrs. Benson, what's to be done with

Struan Glyde?' quite sudden. So I says, 'And what should be done with

such a one, Mr. Menzies, but wallop him?' and he shakes his head and

says, 'He's on the catarampus, ma'am--in one of his black fits. Tells

me to go my way and let him alone; then turns his back.' Now, what about

such troubles as that, Miss Percival?”

Miss Percival looked serious, but not especially interested. Her eyes

looked before her, but seemed not to see anything. She asked, “What did

Mr. Menzies say to him next?” but if she was interested it was not in

that matter.

Mrs. Benson brandished her voice. “Ha, you may well ask me. 'No, my

man,' he says, 'but 'tis you that must go mine while I'm head-gardener

at Wanless,' he says. That's what Mr. Menzies told him, the elderly man

that he is--and now look at this. Young Glyde turns his back upon him,

with no more notice taken than you or I would have of a flea on the arm.

Insolence, that is. Downright insolence of an elderly man. Ah,” said

Mrs. Benson with tightening lips, “if you come to troubles!”

Miss Percival's tone was sympathetic, if her eyes were still sightless.

“Really! I'm very sorry. I'll see Mr. Menzies about it to-morrow, and

of course I'll talk to Struan. He _is_ difficult--it's very tiresome

of him. I saw him this afternoon but had no notion of all this. I can't

think how it is. Nerves, I suppose. He's a human creature, you see, as

well as a gardener.”

Mrs. Benson was incapable of seeing such a possible combination: her

explanation was simpler. Human! She scorned him. “Bad blood,” she said

with energy; “bad, black, gypsy blood. He'll be murdering one of us in

her bed in a day or two. You see if he don't.”

Miss Percival did not deny the suggestion. She considered it rather--its

effect, its effectiveness. “Struan is tiresome, of course,” she said,

“but I do think he has tried to restrain himself lately. He promised

me he would.” She turned her full gaze suddenly upon Mrs. Benson, and

almost disarmed that lady. “I like him, you know. He's very nice to me.”

Mrs. Benson gasped, but recovered just in time to resume the dark

oracles in her keeping. “Ah,” she said, “he _would_ be. If you can call

it nice--”

“He's wonderful in the garden,” Miss Percival calmly continued. “Even

Menzies admits it. He'll work all day. He's never tired.”

“Nor's a tiger,” the cook snapped. “Nor's a tom-cat.”

Miss Percival looked pitifully at her and smiled. “Poor Struan--you

don't like him. I'll see him to-night. I have an influence, I think.”

Mrs. Benson touched the hand that lay within her reach, which had lately

been upon her shoulder. “Don't, my dear, don't,” she said.

“Why not?” asked the lady with her lifted brows. “Why shouldn't I?”

“Influence! The likes of him!--Gypsy blood at midnight--soft-voiced,

murderous--”

She gave no coherent answer, but smiled always, then leaned forward and

stroked Mrs. Benson upon her personable cheek. “Dear old thing, let me

do as I like. It's much better for everybody,” she presently said.

II

It had clouded over after sunset: there was no moon visible, but an

irradiance was omnipresent, and showed the muffled yew-tree walks, and

the greater trees colossal, mountains overshadowing the land. Here and

there, as you went, glimmered daffodils, like the Pleiades half-veiled,

and long files of crocuses burned like waning fires.

Miss Percival, at about nine o'clock, came gently down one of these

alleys, with a scarf over her head and shoulders. She looked like a

nymph in Tanagra. And as if she knew where she was going, exactly, she

walked gently but unfalteringly between the linked crocus-beacons to

where the alley broadened into a bay of cut yews, to where ghostly white

seats and a dim sun-dial seemed disposed as for a scene in a comedy. The

leaden statue of a skipping faun would have been made out in a recess if

you had known it was there. And as she entered the place a figure seated

there, with elbows on knees and chin between his palms, looked up,

listening, watching intently, then rose and waited.

“Struan,” said Miss Percival comfortably, “are you there?”

“I'm here,” she was answered.

Thereupon she came easily forward and stood near him. She was in white

from top to toe; he could see the clean outline of her head and neck,

denned by the hooding scarf. He had not as yet taken off his hat, but

now, as she stood there silent, he slowly removed it. Still there was

nothing said. Miss Percival was very deliberate.

Presently she spoke. “You didn't tell me this afternoon that you'd had a

bother with Mr. Menzies. Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why should I tell you?” The words seemed wrung from him. “Why should

you care?”

“Of course I care,” she said. “You know that I care. Why didn't you tell

me? ... But I know why you didn't.”

“You do not.” He denied her hotly.

“Oh, but I do. Because you were ashamed.”

“It was not. I'm not ashamed. He's an old fool. He thinks he can teach

me my business. Melons! Plants! Why, I'm one of them. What can he teach

me?”

“He's a very good gardener,” Miss Percival began, but the rest was

drowned.

“Gardener--he! He's a botcher. He measures his melons by the pound. It's

money he wants, money-value. So much dung--so much meat. He says, 'Be

careful, you, of the water-pot; go steady with your syringe. You'll damp

off those plants it you're not handy,' he tells me. To me, this! Don't

I know what the life of a plant must have, and how, and where it must

be fed? He's an old fool, and you know it. And I'll not be told things

I have got by heart before a lad new to his breeches. Besides,” he added

darkly, “he'd vexed me before that, and bitterly.”

“How did he vex you?” Miss Percival's voice came cool and clear, but

commanding.

“That I cannot tell you,” said he.

“But I want to know.” This seemed to her sufficing reason.

But he was dogged. “Then I can't help you. You cannot be told.”

“But perhaps I ought to be told. Do you think I ought?”

“Indeed, I don't know.”

“Well, will you tell me?”

“I will not, indeed. That is, I cannot.”

“It's very extraordinary.”

He made no answer.

“Struan,” said Miss Percival, after a while, “you are angry.”

He turned quickly. “With you? Never.”

“I didn't say that. I said you were angry.”

He said, “Ah--and so I am.”

“I am included, I suppose.”

“You are not. It could not be.”

She laughed. “I don't know---”

He was vehement. “But you do know. You know it very well.”

She had no answer; but she smiled to herself; and I have no doubt she

knew.

For two minutes or more there was silence, a time of suspense. Then Miss

Percival said, “I've had a telegram. Mr. Ingram is coming to-morrow.”

To this he said nothing. She went on.

“He is bringing people with him. Mrs. Benson was very funny about it. He

is coming at seven with some people, and she would read it that he was

coming with seven people. When I asked her, how could we meet him if he

had not told us the time? she made a grievance of it, and said that was

so like him. So it is, of course.”

Struan remained speechless, and had turned away his face. Miss Percival

continued her reflections aloud.

“How long has he been away? More than a year. He wrote once from

Singapore--then from Rawal-pindi--and that was all, until I got this

telegram. He's very casual, I must say.” Here she paused.

Struan said suddenly, “Miss Percival, I'm going.”

She turned with interest, and asked, with not too much interest, “Oh!

Why?”

He said, “You know why.”

She lowered her voice by a tone, but no more. “I hope you won't. It

would be a pity. There's no real reason for it. I'll speak to Menzies

to-morrow. He doesn't mean any harm to you. He's only old and grumpy.”

“He's a fool,” said Struan. “Certainly, he's a fool. But that's neither

here nor there.”

Miss Percival, ignoring what she chose to ignore, said again, “I hope

you won't go.”

The young man shifted his ground, and dug his heel into the turf. “I

must--indeed, I must.”

“Where shall you go?”

“God knows.”

“Why must you go?”

“You know why.”

“Is it because of Menzies?”

He threw his head up. “Menzies, forsooth!” He scorned Menzies.

“Then I don't see why you should go. I shouldn't like it. I hope you

will stay.”

He looked at her now across the dusk, intensely. “You hope I will stay?”

“Yes, certainly I do.”

“You hope I will stay? You ask me to stay?”

She considered. Then she said, “Yes, I think so. Yes, I do.”

“Then,” said Struan, “God help us all. I stay.”

Miss Percival said cheerfully, “I'm so glad. I'll speak to Menzies

to-morrow, and get him to leave you alone. He knows how well you do

the melons, but of course he would never admit it.” She broke off the

interview shortly afterwards.

“I'm going to bed,” she told him. “I've got lots to do to-morrow. Heaps

of things. You must get me some of your flowers for the rooms.”

He was not appeased, “Menzies will do it,” he said. She laughed.

“You know what Menzies will say--'Pelargoniums for the hall, Miss

Percival, and some nice maidenhair.' He's not inventive, poor Menzies.”

“He's an old fool,” said Struan. “He takes flowers for spangles in a

circus.”

Miss Percival again laughed softly, and held out her hand. “Good-night,”

she said. “I'm going.”

He touched her hand, and then put his own behind his back.

“Aren't you going to bed?” she asked him.

“Presently,” he said. “I'm going to walk round for a while.”

She hovered for a moment, seemed to hesitate, to weigh the attractions

of walking round. It had a charm. Then she decided.

“Good-night,” she bade him for the third time.

He grumbled his good-night, and watched her fade into the dark. Not

until she was completely hidden up did he put on his hat again. Then he

prowled noiselessly about among the breathing flowers.

III

Wanless, as they call it there,--Wanless Hall, Felsboro', as it is

politically,--stands squarely and deeply in the hills of a northern

county, plentifully embowered in trees, with a river washing its

southern side. To reach house from river you ascend a gentle slope of

lawns and groves for some hundreds of feet, then find a broad stepway.

That takes you to a terraced, parapeted garden very well tended, as one

should be which has four men at its disposition. There stands the house

of Wanless, stone-built in the days of Charles the Second--a gleaming,

grey front, covered to the first-floor windows with a magnolia of

unknown age. The main entrance faces north, from which point the true

shape of the place is revealed as a long body with wings, an E-shaped

house. Here are the carriage-drive and carriage-sweep; then there's a

belt of trees, and beyond that, shaped by the valley, which gradually

narrows to the incline of the hills, kitchen-gardens, glass-houses,

a pond (fed by a beck), water meadows, and hanging woods. Above those

again heather-clad slopes climb to piled rocks and a ragged sky-line. It

is a fine property with 5,000 acres of shooting, a good many farms, and

a hill village to its account. The lodge at the gate was half a mile

away, at the end of a good avenue of beech and sycamore.

Mr. Nevile Ingram who, at thirty, had still the air of a brisk young man

and was owner by inheritance of this place, arrived with his guests by

the 7.4 train from London. The omnibus brought the four of them, with

a maid sitting on the box beside Frodsham, and a bank of luggage

behind her head. No parrots, no dogs; but a Mr. Chevenix brought his

fishing-rods. Besides this Mr. Chevenix, who had been here before, there

was an elderly Mrs. Devereux, white-haired and short-sighted, who used,

whenever she could find them, a pair of long-handled glasses, and a

young Mrs. Wilmot, pretty, very fair, rather helpless. It was her maid

who shared the box-seat with Frodsham.

The absence of a footman at the station had been noted by Mrs. Devereux,

the absence of any man-servant at the house struck her as remarkable.

There was none, and had been none since Miss Percival assumed command;

but at this time Mrs. Devereux knew nothing of Miss Percival. Nevile

Ingram, banging the door open with his knee, jumped out first, and stood

to help the ladies; the next to emerge was Mr. Chevenix who, the moment

he touched earth, said “Right!” and looked as if he had sparkled. It

was clear that he had abundant health and was satisfied with all the

arrangements of Providence. He surveyed the house, the awaiting virgins

at the door, wished them both good evening, nosed the upper air, snuffed

the gale, said “Good old Wanless--my precious rods!” and dived for them

before the ladies could descend. Thereafter a timidly poising foot and

some robust breadth of stocking revealed the anxieties of Mrs. Devereux.

On alighting she shook herself like a hen, and her draperies rustled to

their length. She found her lorgnettes and surveyed (so to speak) the

absent men-servants with blank misgivings. A maid advanced for her

jewel-case, but Mrs. Devereux, shutting her eyes, said “Thanks, I carry

it,” and pressed it to her bosom. A butler would have had it. Meantime,

Mrs. Wilmot, a hand to each cavalier, was descending from the omnibus.

She was a pretty, bedraped lady, with wide blue Greuze eyes, and soft

lips, always wet and mostly apart. She murmured, “How kind you are to

me,” and liked it from Ingram to Chevenix. Ingram said nothing, but

Chevenix dropped down his brisk “By Jove, Mrs. Wilmot, that's nothing to

what I _could_ do for you--nothing at all.” And then they turned to the

house.

When Miss Percival, looking frailer than she really was because of her

black gown, fairer, that is, and paler, entered the hall, she found the

party at a loose end. Mr. Chevenix was in a deep chair, turning over

_Bradshaw_, and whistling softly to himself. Ingram, hands in pockets,

was deprecating the portraits of his ancestors to the two ladies, who

were not at all interested in them. He appeared to be considerably bored

by his guests, and they to be aware of it. Miss Percival's arrival was

timely, if only because she effectively chased out _ennui_. Chevenix, as

if he had been waiting for her, jumped up and went to meet her. He shook

hands. “Hulloa, Sancie!” he was heard distinctly to say. “By Jove, I'm

glad to see you again.” The latter sentence was not quite audible,

but sufficiently so to send Mrs. Devereux' lorgnettes up to her nose.

Sanchia herself, receiving civilities as if born to them, impelled her

to keep them there. She had appeared silently and suddenly out of

the blue. And now she hovered, smiling, fair, and unconcerned, like a

goddess out of a chariot come to deal judgment, and listened charitably

to Mr. Chevenix. How odd! How more than odd! Mrs. Wilmot looked as if

her eyes were full of tears, but let nothing escape her. As for Ingram,

he greeted the apparition with a smile and a nod sideways. But Mrs.

Devereux could have sworn to a scare in the eye. “How are you, Sanchia?”

he said, and then to his guests, “Miss Percival will show you where you

all are, if you'll--Dinner's at half-past eight, I believe. At least,

it always used to be; but I've been away for a year, and they may have

changed all that. Have you, by the way?” he asked, with a sudden turn to

Miss Percival.

She looked calmly at him. “No. It's still at half-past eight,” she said.

He lit his cigarette.

“Will you show these ladies their rooms?” he required of her, adding

as an afterthought, “Mrs. Devereux, Mrs. Wilmot. Mrs. Wilmot has a maid

somewhere.”

It was a quasi-introduction, awkwardly done. Sanchia gravely bowed,

and all might have been well had not her gentle smile persisted. The

baffling quality of this, the archaic enigma of it, made Mrs. Wilmot

stare at her helpless with brimming blue eyes. It made Mrs. Devereux

shiver. It was she, however, who accepted the inclination of the head.

“Good evening to you,” she said. The housekeeper! This--person! The pair

of them followed her upstairs, Mrs. Devereux marching before, like one

of the old _regime_ to the guillotine, Mrs. Wilmot trailing in her wake.

Young Chevenix, when they had disappeared, returned with a grin to

his _Bradshaw_. “No change from Sanchia,” he said; and “Let's see:

_Birmingham depart_ 4.45. By Gad, that's a good train. No,” he resumed;

“no change out of Sancie. How long is it since you were here, Nevile?”

Ingram was staring blankly out of window. “I think a year. I don't know.

You went out with me to Brindisi, I believe, and that was April, and

so's this--just. So you can work it out. D'you want me to fix you up?

You're in the east wing, you know--I expect you are, anyhow. Where you

were before.”

“Right,” said Chevenix; “right. Only we're none of us where we were

before, my boy. Don't flatter yourself.” He shut _Bradshaw_ with a

bang, and went off, singing softly, to a tune of his own, “No change, no

change from Sanchia,” which he turned into “Who is Sanchia? What is she,

that all our swains...?”

[Illustration: The housekeeper! This--person!]

Miss Percival, having played the exact and perfect housekeeper

above--with no apparent interest in life but submergence in her

duties--returned to the ground floor and sought Minnie in the

dining-room. She made her survey calmly, and gave such orders as

pertained in smooth tones which could not jar. She seemed to consult

where she really directed. “Shall we have the _epergne?_ I think we

will, don't you? Yes. It's a grand occasion. I don't think we have ever

had ladies at Wanless before.” An admission which staggered Minnie. Her

“Oh, yes, Miss Percival,” and “Oh, no, Miss Percival,” were appreciative

and good to hear.

She was butler, we find, as well as housekeeper, for as she stood there,

meditating the table, Ingram came in, in a hurry, with ideas about wine.

He gave them out in jerks, without looking at her. Sherry, of course, a

hock, Lafite. No champagne: it's beastly unless you are tired. Oh, and

old brandy--the very old. Nothing of the sort to be had in India.

The climate kills it. He stood very close to her as he spoke. When he

remembered the brandy he put his hand on her shoulder, and finding it

there, kept it so. Minnie presently went out of the room upon affairs;

and then he looked into her face and said in a new tone, “How are you,

Sancie?” He let his hand slide down, encircled her waist lightly with

his arm. She gave him her grey eyes and a slow, patient smile. “I am

quite well,” she said. “Are you?” Ingram, watching her still, seemed

disconcerted, as if he wanted to say or do more, but couldn't, for some

reason. What he did was to remove his hand quickly and thrust it into

his trouser pocket. It might have been suddenly stung, judging from his

way of whipping it away. “Oh, I'm all right, of course. I must go and

dress, I suppose.” A year is a long time for an absence. In the doorway

he stopped and looked back, a last look. “Supper in my room, you know.

We'll talk.” She held to her mysteries, and he went.

Dinner passed gaily, Miss Percival away. Ingram was loquacious, though

rather caustic; Chevenix a good foil, easy-tempered, always at a run,

a very fair marksman for all his random shooting. His was that happy

disposition which finds Nature at large, including men, as precisely

there for his amusement. He relished, never failed to relish, the works

of God. But then he had perfect health. Mrs. Devereux was something of

a grandee, though not quite so much of one as she suspected. Her white

hair towered; she wore black velvet and diamonds. Mrs. Wilmot was very

much of a pretty woman, and knew to the turn of a hair how much. She had

the air of a spoiled child, which became her; was golden and rosy; could

pout; had dark blue eyes, which she could cloud at will, and fill, as we

know, with tears. She excelled in pathetic silences, to which her parted

lips gave an air of being breathless. She was beautifully dressed in

cloudy, filmy things, and had a soft, slight, drooping figure. Innocence

was her _forte_: her rings were superb.

One odd thing was noticeable, and noticed intensely by Chevenix, that

Ingram hardly ate anything, though he pretended to a hearty meal. It

came, Chevenix saw, to dry toast and three glasses of wine, practically.

But he made great play with knife and fork, and talked incessantly. He

revealed himself at every turn of his monologue--for it came to be

a monologue--as one of those men whose motives are so transparently

reasonable to themselves that they need never be at the trouble to

explain or defend any act of theirs. He was witty, though occasionally

brutal, as when he spoke of a dragoman he had had in Egypt, whose

defence of his _harem_ had cost him his place. This man, a cultivated

Persian, had proposed hospitality to his patron in Alexandria, where

he lived. Accepted, he had made a great supper for Ingram, invited his

friends and acquaintances, procured musicians and dancing-girls. It

was magnificent, Ingram allowed. The trouble came afterwards, when the

native guests had gone their ways and patron and host were together.

Ingram proposed a visit to the ladies--“the civil thing, it appeared to

me. But no, if you please! Mirza turned very glum, pronounced it not the

custom: I must excuse him, he says. But I say, Will they excuse _me_, my

good man? He makes a sour face, so of course I know that they won't,

and that he knows they won't. Then he marches away upon some errand or

another, and when he comes back finds me tapping at a door. You never

saw such a change in a chap; upon my soul, it was worth it. He went

white, he went grey, he went livid. His eyes were like stars. No, I'm

wrong. They were not. They were like the flaming swords which kept Adam

and Eve out of the garden. Magnificent police arrangements in Eden,

they had. I heard his breath whistle through his nose like the wind at

a keyhole. He says 'You mistake, sir. You forget. Or do I deserve to be

insulted?' I told him that I was the insulted person in the party, and

the ladies came next. I swear I heard a chuckle behind the door. That I

swear to.”

Chevenix, round-eyed and staring, was heard to mutter, “Good old Nevile!

Well, I'll be shot....” Ingram cut short his tale.

“I can't go into what followed. Much of it was irrelevant, all of it was

preposterous. It ended by Mirza directing me to the nearest hotel, in

perfect English. The crosser he got, the better his English. That's odd,

you know. Of course, I chucked the chap. He lost a soft billet.”

There were no comments from the auditory, save such as Mrs. Wilmot's

eyes may have afforded. She sighed, and laid her hand for one moment,

caressingly, upon her neck. Her rings were certainly superb.

The dessert being on the table, Minnie served the old brandy and

retired. Ingram drank of it freely, and began his cigarette the moment

that the coffee and spirit-flame appeared. The ladies withdrew to the

drawing-room, and Mrs. Wilmot sought the piano. But two chords had not

been touched before her eyes found those of Mrs. Devereux, who stood by

the fire. Eyebrows exchanged signals.

Then Mrs. Devereux said, “I am most uncomfortable,” and Mrs. Wilmot

sighed, “I know.”

IV

The quiet cause of discomfort, slippered and loose-robed, sat meanwhile

in an easy-chair, with her feet in the fender. Her hair floated free

about her shoulders, silky from the brush. She had a book on her knees,

but did not read it. Instead she looked into the fire, frowning.

Faint lines now printed themselves upon her face; two between her brows,

one defining the round of each fair cheek. Her eyes showed fathomless

sapphire: whatever her thoughts were of they held the secret close.

Their gaze was one of fascination, as if she saw things in the fire

terrible and strange, figures of the past or of the future, from which

she could not turn her face. The curve of her upper lip, where it lay

along its fellow and made a dimpled end, sharpened and grew bleak.

Poring and smiling into the fire, she looked like a Sibyl envisaging the

fate of men, not concerned in it, yet absorbed, interested in the play,

not at all in the persons. This friend of Mrs. Benson, this midnight

mate of young gardeners, disturber of high ladies' comfort, serene

controller of Wanless, she was, it would seem, all things to all men,

as men could take her. But now she had the fell look of a cat, the

long, sleek, cruel smile, the staring and avid eyes. A cat she might be,

playing with her own beating heart, patting it, watching its throbs.

These moments of witchcraft gazing were not many. They had been

deliberately begun, and were deliberately done with. Within their span

her cares were faced and co-ordinated; and the business over, she sighed

and sank more snugly into her chair. She leaned back; her hands crossed

themselves in her lap; she shut her eyes. All the lines upon her face

softened, melted away. She looked now like an Oread aswoon in the midday

heats, pure of thought or dread or memory. Her bosom below her laces

rose and fell gently. She slept.

Outside, in the dusky dark, was one who padded up and down the grass on

noiseless feet, passing and repassing the window, with an eye for the

narrow chink of light.

She slept for a very short time. Towards ten o'clock she awoke.

Collecting herself luxuriously, she was seen to face her facts again.

Evidently they held her eyes waking; they were dreadfully there, still

unresolved or still unpalatable. Before them now she plainly quailed.

The flush of her sleep gave delicacy to her carven beauty; she looked

fragile and tremulous; it would seem that a little more pity of herself

would bring her to tears. As if she knew it, she took her measures, rose

abruptly, and after two turns about the room went to a safe, opened it,

and plunged herself into the ledger-book, which she took from it. Upon

that and a cash-box--with certain involuntary pauses, in which her eyes

concentrated and stared--she remained closely engaged until half-past

eleven.

At that hour, having ascertained it, she put by her work, went into

her bedroom, and began a deliberate and careful toilet. She was pale,

serious, and evidently rather scared at herself; she lifted her eyebrows

and opened wide her eyes. But she did what she had to do as daintily

as ever Amina, in the Arab tale, figured her rice. A person of great

simplicity, who did extraordinary things in an ordinary way, at the hour

when all Wanless was going to bed, she brushed and banded her shining

hair, and dressed herself in silk and lace as for a dinner party. To

herself in the glass she gave and received again a face of pure pity and

sorrow. She saw herself lovely and love-worthy, sleek under the caress

of her own beauty. Yet she knew exactly what she was about to do, and

how she would do it, and did not falter at all.

At a quarter past twelve her summons came--a knock at the door, the

turning of the handle, the push to open, and Ingram's voice. “Come

along, Sancie,” he said, and went away without any more ceremony. She

got up from her chair, put her book down, having marked her place, and

followed him after a few minutes' meditation. Ingram's quarters were on

the ground floor of the house, as hers were, but in the opposite wing.

She had two rooms in the western arm of the E; the whole of the eastern

was his.

He was at table when she came in and shut the door behind her, at a

table fairly naped, with fine glass, silver, and flowers upon it. There

was hothouse fruit, too, a melon, a little pyramid of strawberries

in fig-leaves. He was eating smoked salmon and bread and butter with

appetite. By his side, half empty, was a champagne glass. A pint bottle

stood at his elbow.

He hailed her gaily, with a jerk of his head, a “Come along,” and a

lifted glass. Leaning back as she came on, watching and waiting for her,

he stretched out his left arm. She smiled rather conventionally, did not

meet his eyes, but came within reach. His arm encircled her, and drew

her in. “Well, my girl, well!” he said, glancing up, laughing,

tempting her to laugh. She looked down gently, blushing a little, and

condescended to him, stooped and brushed his forehead with her lips.

Condescension expresses her act. It was exactly done as one would humour

an importunate child, excuse its childishness, and grant it its desire

of the moment.

So it must have been felt by him, for there was a sharp, short tussle

of wills. She would have had him contented, but he was not so to be

contented. There was a little struggle, much silent entreaty from

him, much consideration from her above him--her doubting, judging,

discriminating eyes, her smile, half-tender and half-scornful; but in

the end he kissed her lips, the more ardently for their withholding.

Then he allowed her to sit by the table, not far off, and resumed his

smoked salmon and his zest. She declined to share the meal; was neither

hungry nor thirsty, she said. “Have your own way, my dear,” he concluded

the match; “you'll feel all the better for it, I know.” She cupped her

chin in her hand, and watched the play of knife and fork, her thoughts

elsewhere.

“Now, Sancie,” he said presently, in his usual direct manner, “how long

is it since I've seen you?”

She answered at once, without looking up, “A year and ten days.”

He shook his head. “That's too long. That's absurd. I don't like that

kind of thing, as a man domestically inclined. But I've been a devil of

a way. I wrote to you--from where?”

“From Singapore,” she told him.

“So I did. I remember. But I went to Egypt before that. First-rate

place, Egypt. I know it well, but am always glad to be there. Fine river

of its own. We went to Khartoum, and two marches beyond; then Singapore

and the Straits, Burmah, Ceylon; then India. Didn't I write to you from

India?”

“Yes,” she told him. She was balancing a salt-spoon idly on a

wine-glass, and seemed scarcely to listen. He rattled on.

“Had great days in India. Shooting, fishing, pig-spearing; polo, dances,

rajahs, pretty women, pow-wows of sorts, and a chance of a fight. All in

a year, my friend--I beg your pardon--and ten days. Quick work, eh? One

crowded year of glorious life. A cycle of Cathay.”

She was looking at her saltspoon, stretched beyond her the length of her

arm. “I'm sure you were very happy.”

He looked at her directly. “Oh, I was, you know. Otherwise, I guess I

should have written. I was idiotically happy. And you?”

“I was busy,” she told him, “idiotically busy.” He laughed gaily.

“That's one for me--and a shrewd one. Oh, you deep-eyed scamp! Sancie,

you never give yourself away. I've noticed that many and many a time.

And not I only, I can assure you. Bill Chevenix, now---”

Her thoughts, her regard, were far away from a world of Ingrams and

Chevenixes. She may have heard, but she gave no sign. He rattled on.

“Oh, you're splendid, of course you're splendid. The comfort of you! I

go off to the ends of the world--without a care left behind me--or taken

with me, by Jove! No bothers, no worry--letters opened, the right ones,

answered and done with. Letters forwarded, the right ones, unopened.

How you can guess, it beats me! No worry. You don't ask me to write to

you--or expect it. You don't write to me--and I don't expect it. You

know me just as I know you. There's a confidence, a certainty about you.

That's what's so splendid. There can't be a girl in the world like you.”

He clasped her in triumph. “My Sancie! Back I come at the end of my

time, and everything's in apple-pie order. And to crown all, there's

you at the door, to welcome me--and wait your turn--and wait your turn.

Always the same--my wise, fine Sanchia!” He leaned forward, picked up

and held her hand. “My dear, I love you,” he said, and jumped up and

kissed her. Then, as he stood above her, the triumphant young man, with

the hand of possession on her shoulder, “Upon my word,” he declared to

the assembled universe, “this is a very satisfactory world, so far as I

am concerned.”

When he was seated again, and invited her to talk domestic affairs, she

returned from her reverie, and gathered in all her self-possession. The

estate, the household, the parish, the county: there was no mistaking

his interest in these matters. He was interested in the smallest

particulars: her broods of young chicks, her pigeons, the tabby cat's

kittens, the Rector's baby. He asked searching questions. How many cows

were in milk just now; when would Menzies have asparagus fit to eat? The

servants--was all well there? Their young men? Nothing escaped him. She

was quite ready for him, took a dry tone, showed a slight sense of the

humour of the situation, descended to trifles, had statistics at her

fingers' ends. She met him, in a word, as he wished to be met, as

jointly concerned in these minute affairs.

He lit a cigar, and drew her to the fire. He would have had her on his

knee, but she would not. She sat on a straight chair beside his easy

one, and allowed him to play with her hand.

He talked now in jerks, between puffs, of his adventures; his first

shot at a tiger, some trouble with hillmen at Peshawur, a row at a

mess-table, in which two chaps lost their heads, and one his papers. He

had been present as a guest, but had kept well in the background. There

had been a lot of drinking done--luckily he was all right. He had a good

head, you see; could carry a lot of stuff.

He had, by the way, “picked up” that little Mrs. Wilmot on board ship.

She was coming home in the convoy of Mrs. Devereux. Of course he had

known Mrs. Devereux for years; she was an institution. The little Wilmot

person was a widow, it seemed. Niceish sort of young woman; knew the

Trenchards up here, was a kind of cousin of Lady Trenchard's. In fact,

she was going on to them from here; but not due for a week or so. She

had, you might say, asked to be asked, or spelled for it out of those

eyes of hers. You get awfully friendly on board ship, you must know. You

can say anything--and do most things--oh, all sorts of things! He had

no objection--to her coming, he meant; indeed, he rather liked the

young party. He thought Chevenix did, too. But Chevenix was very much at

Sanchia's disposal; “he talked a lot about seeing you again, my girl.”

To meet him again might carry her mind back--how long? Eight stricken

years. Was it possible that she--he and she--had been here together

eight years? Yes, he could see that she remembered. Dear, sweet Sancie!

There was bravado here on his part, and nervousness to be discerned

beneath it; for it is most certain that her reverie was not exactly as

he would have it. Her chin was in her hand, her caught other hand lay

idle in his own; her eyes were far-gazing and sombre; her smile was

bleak. Whatever she heard, whatever she thought of, she betrayed

nothing.

Her brooding calm spurred him in that sensitive spot whose throb or ache

tells a man whether he is centre of a woman's mind or not. He must know

whether she was glad to have him back; the wanderer returned, eh? She

had not told him so yet, he must observe; no, nor looked it. She was

mysterious, it seemed to him. “And you can speak with your eyes, my

dear; none better. Your tongue was never very loose; but your eyes! Now,

you know what you can do with them, Sancie; you know very well. Speak to

me, then, my dear, speak to me. Speak to me only with thine ... no, not

_only!_ You can speak in a thousand ways--with your hands, with the tips

of your fingers placed here or there, with a bend of the head on that

lovely neck you have, with your faint colour, with your quick

breath.” ...

Fired by his own words, he worked himself into enthusiasm, was enamoured

of what himself proclaimed. “My beautiful--my goddess!” he called her,

and drew her to his heart.

And she allowed him, allowed herself to be pressed there, while within

her the dull fire smouldered, and the deep, slow resentment gathered

like clouds about the sun. But he held her face now between his two

hands and forced to meet his own her unresponsive eyes; and when with

ardour he had kissed her grave lips, the flippancy of a fool ruined

him, and his triumph was flattened into dust, as when one crushes a

puff-ball.

He suddenly held her at arms' length as he was struck by an idea. “Oh,

by the way, I forgot,” he said, and looked vaguely across the room.

“Claire is dead.”

Sanchia's eyes concentrated and paled. The pupils of them were specks.

She paled to the lips, then slowly flooded as with a tide of sanguine.

She withdrew herself from him; simply dropped him off her. She said

nothing; but she watched him steadily, while within her the masked fire

gleamed and fitfully leapt.

Bravado made him hold on to his airy tone. “She died, I'm told, at

Messina, some time in March. I heard it at Marseilles. Met a man who

told me. Yes! She's dead--and buried.”

Sanchia had nothing to say. She looked, however, towards the door--and

he detected that. Her silence spread about the room, caught him and

enveloped him. That she was calculating how long it would be before she

could escape by that door was absolutely clear, and the frost of her

silence struck down upon him so that he could not gainsay her purpose.

He paused irresolute, glancing askance at her directed eyes. Then he

gave in, left her, opened the door for her. She went out, folded in her

own mystery, but as she went by him he caught up her hand, and kissed

the fingers. They were very cold, and made him shiver.

“Good-night, my dear,” he said, all his dash gone out of him.

She said good-night very simply and went away. He looked after her until

she had turned the corridor, then went to the table and poured himself

brandy and soda-water, drank deeply, and set down the tumbler with a

crash. “By God! I am a fool,” he told himself.

From the garden that narrow chink of light which shone through Ingram's

shutter was seen to collapse by one who watched it. Shortly afterwards,

that same haunter of the dark saw a shining slit part the shutters of

a window in the west wing, and sighed, short and quick. He returned, to

prowl among the secret flowers.

V

When, after dinner, Mrs. Devereux had told her young friend that she

was uncomfortable, there had been no need of the words; but the slow

answering “I know” with which Mrs. Wilmot expressed sympathy was not

intended to imply that she shared the feeling. She herself was not at

all uncomfortable, because, while she saw the whole state of affairs,

she was not unhopeful of coping with it. Touching the place where the

tender point of her breast lay nestling, she assured herself that she

could hope. But Mrs. Devereux, moving about in worlds not realised, was

incensed. Nothing that followed during the next few days served to clear

the surcharged air. It is hard to say what vexed her most, where all

was as it should not be. Ingram, bluntly unconscious of her sufferings,

gloomed over his own; Chevenix spied about for what he could not find,

spy as he would, and made the cause of woe more conspicuous than ever.

As for her, the disastrous fair, the deliberation with which she went

about her duties, and ease with which she did or caused them to be done;

her self-possession, gentleness, suavity, yes! and benevolence, were

sights to make angels weep. Tears of blood! If Mrs. Devereux, by any

means, could have compressed tears of blood, they had been shed. Nothing

less vivid would have met the case: to exhibit her scarlet handkerchief

to Ingram with a “There, see, I weep. Tears of blood!” Day by day in

that mild spring weather, under pale blue skies, fanned by zephyrs, she

could but pace the terrace walks, and stiffen herself, and stare about

her--with dull disapproval for the very flowers, lest theirs, too,

should be frail beauty, and repeat for her only comfort that she

was most uncomfortable. So she was. But it was because she did not

understand, not because she did. Curiosity ravaged her.

On one of these days, breakfast over at half-past ten, young Mr.

Chevenix declared his intention with cheerfulness and point. “Twentieth

of April--Dizzy's birthday, or Shakespeare's. Nevile, I'm going to fish

your river. They are leaping like the boys in _Eugene Aram,_ and I'm

going to give them something to leap at. Now, what are all you people

going to do? Because, I'll be free with you, I don't want you to come

and look on. Mrs. Devereux, I let you off. You needn't gillie me.

Nevile, you run away and play. Amuse Mrs. Wilmot. Do now: she likes it.

I'm all right.”

The elder lady fixed him keenly with a look which saw through his saucy

assurance; Ingram's eyes sought those of Mrs. Wilmot across the table.

She lent him their wonder for a moment, then looked down at her bosom.

He was satisfied. There were still women in the world.

“What shall we do?” he asked her. “Will you be driven? Will you drive?

Will you ride?” Another shaft rewarded him, which said, “Do with me as

you will.”

Ingram rang the bell. Minnie appeared. “Tell Frodsham, the horses at a

quarter past eleven. I ride Sea-King, Mrs. Wilmot Lorna Doone. He had

better come--or Butters will do. That's all.”

Mrs. Devereux had been ignored, but was not displeased. It showed,

at least, that Ingram knew she was not to be disposed of like a white

rabbit. It was, however, necessary to say something, to declare one's

presence, as it were; so she collected her papers. “I have letters to

write. You will excuse me, I know.”

Chevenix sprang to the door. “By George, I should think so,” he said,

which was well intended, but too brisk. He bowed her out, shut her out,

and stood with his eyes on the others.

Ingram remained before the fire looking out of window. “She's in a wax.

I don't know why.”

“Oh, don't you, my boy?” said Chevenix to himself.

Mrs. Wilmot trifled with her tea-spoon. “And I don't care--much,” he

added. Mrs. Wilmot smiled.

Mr. Chevenix, going a-fishing, saw, as he had intended to see, Sanchia

in the rose-garden, talking to Struan Glyde, who was tying ramblers.

“Morning, Sanchia--morning, Glyde!” Each greeted him, but the youth

grimly.

He talked at large. “I'm for murder. I must flesh my steel. It's too

good a day to lose. Clouds scurry, sun is shy; air's balmy: a trout must

die. That is very nearly poetry, Sancie. It is as near poetry as I can

hope to get this side the harps and quires. Now, what on earth is Clyde

doing to his roses at this time of year?”

The dark-skinned, sharp-chinned young man, aproned and shirt-sleeved,

turned a shade darker. His black eyes glowed. He was quietly arrogant,

even to her. “It doesn't matter,” he had once told her, “what you say or

do. I love you, and that's the sum and end of it.” Now he allowed her to

answer for him.

“There was a wind in the night which tore them about. I asked him to

make them safe. I hate to think of their bruised ribs.”

Chevenix whistled his satisfaction with this and all things else. “I

see. Works of mercy. There's a blessing on that, somewhere and somewhen.

All to the good, you know, Clyde. You never know your luck, they tell

me.” He left Clyde and his roses, and turned to the young lady. “Well

now, look here, Sancie--if works of mercy are toward, what d'you say to

one on your own account? Here I stand, an orphan boy, upon my honour.

The master's gone riding with the widow.” He stopped his rattle, as

a thought struck him serious for a moment. “By George, and he's a

widower--so he is!” Discharged of that, he resumed--“Yes, and Mrs.

Devereux has got the hump, as they say--and here I am at your mercy, to

be made much of. Who's going to admire me? Who's going to hold my net?

Who's going to say, 'Oh, what a beauty!'” He had now got her thoroughly

at her old ease with him. Her eyes gleamed, and there was no doubting

her smile. “Now, I'll tell you what. Your roses are all right. Glyde

will see to that. You leave that to Glyde and his strong right arm. His

strength is as the strength of ten, because... you follow me, I think?

Now, Sancie, I put it to you--I'm an old friend of the family, and

haven't seen you for--how many years? Aren't you going to give me

half-an-hour of your morning?”

He pleaded by looks. He was quizzical, but in earnest. Her brow was

clear.

“Yes,” she said. “I'll come--for half-an-hour.”

“Right! Right, goddess of the silver brake. Come, hold the pass with

me.” He turned to go, and she caught him up. “I mix my poets like salad,

but that's because I'm in such high spirits. By Jove, Sancie, it _is_

good to see you again.” She met his laughing eyes with hers. She swam

by his side--took his net, and was happy. Her face glowed. She had the

power of casting troubles behind, recuperative power, resiliency. Glyde,

the olive-faced, watched them down the walk, and owned to a heart of

lead. “As well shut down the west wind as a spirit like hers!” He turned

to his affair.

Below the steps, in the nut-walk which led to the bridge, Chevenix

altered his tone. “It's good of you to come with me, Sancie, my dear.

I'm a very friendly beggar, and Nevile, you know--I say!” and he turned

her a sober face--“You know, I suppose? His wife--eh? Dead, you know.

Oh, but of course you did!”

She met him unfalteringly. “Yes, he told me.”

Chevenix shrugged. “I must say, you know--what? Oh, of course, it was a

ghastly affair all along. But _you_ know all that, as well as I do. Why,

her temper! Oh, awful! I've seen her myself dead-white in one of her

rages--she had hold of a wine-glass so hard that it snapped, and cut

her hand. She looked at the blood--she didn't know how it happened. And

he--well, _you_ ought to know--was as bad, in his way. 'Pon my soul,

Sancie, Vesuvius might just as well have married Etna--every bit. But

there! What's the good of talking! Everybody knew how it would be.”

Words failing him, he stared about him.

“But still--oh, damn it all! To hear of your wife's death--casually--on

a platform--from a chap you happen to know--happen to have

met somewhere--oh, well, I call it casual. That's the word, I

believe--casual. Well, it _is_ pretty casual--what? Now, just tell me

what you think--between friends, of course.”

She stopped him: she was short in the breath. “I think not. If you don't

mind.”

He became as serious, immediately, as he was capable of being. “I'll do

as you like, my dear--but you'll let me say this, that if I could see

you with all your belongings about you again, I should sing a hymn.

That's all, Sancie; but it means a lot. When you went out of Great

Cumberland Place, it became, somehow, another kind of place. I hardly

ever go there now, you know. And now they're all married but you, and--I

say, you heard that Vicky had a son and heir? Did you hear that?”

She had averted her face, but she listened intensely, nodding her head.

“Yes, yes, I knew that. Papa told me. He always writes to me, you know;

from the office, poor darling!”

She appealed to him urgently. “Please don't talk about them just yet.

Please don't.”

He saw the mist in her eyes, and was afraid. “All right, Sancie, all

right. I'm frightfully sorry. Beastly painful all this, you know.” He

was much disturbed. To his simple soul a fine day, a fine-fettled river

demanded, as of right, a happy mood in man, for whom all things

were made. And a fine girl by his side, a good, a brave, a splendid

girl--down on her luck--on such a day! What could one do? If, when you

began, she choked you off! Wouldn't meet you half-way--bottled it up!

And here he was, geared for fishing, and without the heart to wet a

line, because of all this misery. Sanchia, sharply in profile to him,

from cheek to chin, from shoulder to low breast, all one sinuous, lax,

beautiful line, broke in on his rueful meditations. “There's a rise,”

she said. “Look, look.”

His eye swept the river. “You're right. By Gad, that's a whacker. That's

a fish. Now, you stop just where you are, net in hand. Don't move, and

you shall see something.”

He left her, and ran stooping down the bank, all his little soul

concentrated in his cast. The dimpled water ran and swirled, the line

flashed in the sun. Three casts, four; a splash, a taut line, and his

shout, “Come on, quick; I've got him.” Sanchia glided swiftly down the

bank, her eyes alight, the lines of neck and shoulder finely alert.

Her eyes shone, her lips parted; she looked the Divine Huntress to whom

Senhouse had once likened her. She stooped, the net jerked; she watched,

waited, tense to the act. Within the swirling water the great fish

plunged: she watched, strung to the pounce; the net dipped and darted;

she lifted it to land.

Chevenix admired. “By George, you are a one--er, I must say! Born to it.

You strike like an osprey. That's a fish--what?” They peered together

into the net, where, coiled and massy, beaming rose and pale gold, the

trout writhed.

“Splendid!” breathed Sanchia, glowing and alight.

Chevenix gloried in her beauty. “If Nevile don't know what his chances

are--if he ain't on his knees--my heavens, what a mate for a chap!”

A shadow falling upon him caused him to look up. Mrs. Devereux, grey and

tall, boa'd, gloved, umbrella'd, stood regarding him and his companion

from the bank. Instinct prompted him immediately to screen Sanchia by

dragging her into the party. He held up the net and plunged. “First

prize,” he cried out, as heartfully as he could, “to me and Miss

Percival.”

“So I see,” said Mrs. Devereux. “Ah, good morning.”

This was to Sanchia's bland greeting, which, as always, made the lady

shiver. It is difficult to say what a shock it was to her to be greeted

cheerfully by Sanchia. To see one in so painful a situation occupied

by anything less painful, interested in anything at all, was truly

shocking. Mrs. Devereux's idea of irregularity was that it absorbed the

devoted victim, kept her aghast. If it did not, surely, there was no

reward left to the virtuous. But here we had a highly irregular young

woman behaving with extreme regularity. Was the world turning upside

down? Was black, then, really white? She shivered, she blinked her eyes;

but she descended the bank and stood beside the pair, yet rigidly apart.

Chevenix, having got her there, knew not what to do with her. It seemed

to him that he had better, on the whole, go on, so turned the lady a

knowing face.

“This is not the first time by any means that Miss Percival and I have

gone fishing, you must know. We began by tickling 'em--we were urchins

together, you see.”

“Really!” said Mrs. Devereux, who still saw nothing but depravity.

“I remember,” he went on, “the first time we went fishing. I was at

Alnmouth with a governess; awful lonely little beggar I was. I used

to moon about on the sands, while she read the _Morning Post_, with

spectacles and a red parasol. And I used to hanker about all the other

young 'uns, and wish I was one of 'em. _Her_ party was there, you

know--five of 'em, all girls and all pretty girls--eh, Sancie? I would

have given my hopes of heaven--if I'd had any, you know--to go and

paddle with 'em. Jolly party you were, my dear--jolly old plump papa,

rosy mamma--and Philippa like a young tree, and Melusine and Hawise

bright as apples; and then Vicky and you--little dears, you were. I was

like a spent salmon, I believe, lantern jawed, hollow-eyed little devil,

as solitary as sin.” He turned, flushed, to Sanchia, and put his hand

on her arm; she turned away her face, and Mrs. Devereux believed she saw

tears. “It was _you_ who took me in, you know.”

“No,” said Sanchia, turning him her shining eyes. “It was Vicky. She

asked you to come fishing.” He accepting her ruling.

“Bless me, it _was_ Vicky. Always a frisky one. But after that it was

always you and Vicky and me. And we had the time of our lives--at least,

I did.” Even Mrs. Devereux felt an emotion from the beam with which

Sanchia rewarded him--a tender, compassionate look, as if she understood

and excused him.

“You are old friends, I see,” she said; and her smile was not

unfriendly.

Chevenix shook his head wisely. “Frightfully old--I've known 'em

all--all my life.” Mrs. Devereux then made a distinct advance.

“It must be very nice for you,” she said to Sanchia.

Sanchia's eyes were now clear, and her smile absolutely general. “To

see Mr. Chevenix? Yes, indeed.” She collected herself. “But I'm afraid

I must go now. I've a great deal to do.” She admonished the young man.

“Now you had better catch some more,” she told him. “I must go.”

His face fell--without any regard for Mrs. Devereux--to “Oh, I say!” but

it was then revealed to him that there might be a part for him to play.

“Right, Sancie--you're mistress here. See you later.” He met her eyes

gallantly, and lifted his hat. Sanchia bent her head to Mrs. Devereux,

and went staidly away, her duties gathering in her brows. The elder

lady and the young man stood face to face without speaking. Then Mrs.

Devereux sat deliberately down, and Chevenix braced himself.

“You said just now,” the lady began, “to Miss Percival, that she was

mistress here. What did you mean by that, exactly?”

Chevenix sprang sideways to this flank attack. “Oh, you know, Mrs.

Devereux! you can't take a chap--literally--what?”

He wanted time; but she gave him none. “You must forgive an old woman of

the world--of a certain world. I come here--to a house which belonged

to Nevile's father, an old, old friend, and I find--installed--a young

lady--who does not dine--who is extremely capable. I am bewildered,

naturally.”

Chevenix's “I know, I know,” and his friendly nods ran on as an

accompaniment.

“And then,” said she, raising her voice, “I find that this young

lady--and you--are old friends. You speak of her--people--as if they

were really--of the sort which--as if she were--of the kind--whom--” It

was impossible. “Really,” she said, “it's most unusual. I don't frankly

know what I ought to do.”

Chevenix listened carefully to her truncated phrases, where what she did

not say was the most eloquent part of her discourse. He nodded freely

and sagely; he was conciliatory, but clear in opinion. “I know, I know,”

he said. “It's very rum--you must naturally find it so. I know exactly

how you feel about it. Oh, rum's the only word for it. Or rummy. Yes,

you might call it rummy--or a go, you know--or anything like that.” Then

he grew plausible. “But I'm sure it's all right. It's a long story, but

I'm quite sure. You've no idea what a fine girl that is. Ah, but I

know it.” He tapped his forehead. “I saw the whole thing through--from

beginning to end. She's a perfect beauty, to begin with.”

That was a bad note. Mrs. Devereux asked him at once if he thought

that a good reason. “Well,” he said, “I do, you know--in a way. I can't

explain it--but I think you see it in her face, you know--and manner.

Yes, in her manner. She's uncommon, you see, most uncommon. And as cool

as--well, it would be hard to say how cool a hand I thought her.”

He paused, having got off this effective estimate, round-eyed and

triumphant.

“It seems to me, Mr. Chevenix,” said the dry lady, “that the less you

say the better.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Devereux, not at all.” He was eager to explain. “I

don't think you quite follow me. What I meant to say was, that when a

young woman can be as cool as she can be; can run a big place like this,

and manage a staff of servants,--outdoors, mind you, and in; no steward,

only a bailiff; keep all the accounts; and hold her head up--for she

does that, you know, uncommonly well; why, then I say that she must be

allowed the benefit of the doubt, you know. You must say, 'Well, it's

rum, it's rummy,' or how you like to put it--'but she's got a head on

her shoulders, and I suppose she knows what she's doing. I suppose she's

seen her way.' For she's all right, you know, Mrs. Devereux; she's as

right as rain. It's irregular, dashed irregular--but, by George, I'll

tell you this, Nevile was in a bad way when he first met her; and she's

pulled him through. He's steady enough now, is Nevile. Don't drink--nor

do other things. He threatened to be a waster in his day; but he's no

waster now. She did that, you know; she pulled him through. Why, bless

your heart, Mrs. Devereux, he used to rave about her--rave, and chuck

himself about on sofas, and cry like anything, and bite his nails down.

There never was such a girl under heaven, he used to say. He called her

a goddess. Love! Oh, Lord! And I assure you, on my solemn oath, that he

never did a better day's work in his life, nor any girl a finer, than

when he put in his word for himself, poor devil, and she said, 'Yes,

I'll do it.'”

“Did she--” Mrs. Devereux asked, or began to ask, and he shrugged, and

exclaimed,

“Ah! There you have me. Now you've done it. I don't know. That's the

fact--I don't know. Everybody thought so. She went on as if she did; but

now,--no, I don't know. You see, she's such a cool hand, she's such a

deep one--you can't tell. There's no telling with that sort. All I can

say is, it looked uncommonly like the real thing. We all thought so

at the time. The symptoms were right enough--or wrong enough,

you'll say--and then, look at her since! She's stuck to him through

everything--good report, bad report, everything. She's chucked

her people--or been chucked. Had four beautiful sisters--glowing,

upstanding, fine girls, all of them; and chucked. Old father, in the

City: chucked. Mother, big, handsome, hot-tempered: chucked. And all for

Nevile, who (between ourselves) ain't worth it. He's not a bad one, but

he's not a good one, either. He's got a cruel temper, Nevile has--like

that ghastly wife of his. But--” he cried, opening his arms--“there you

are. They're like that, her sort. Mighty quiet about it, you know;

was turned into the streets, you may say; father, mother, sisters, all

showed their backs. What does she do? Sets her teeth together, looks

straight ahead, and takes old Nevile. And here she is now oh, as--right

as rain. What a girl, eh?”

Mrs. Devereux was certainly moved. She was almost prepared to admit a

genuinely exceptional case. But she had a question to ask. Did Ingram

intend to marry her--now?

At this Chevenix stepped back, as if to avoid a blow. “Ah!” he said.

“Ah! That's it. Ask me another.”

“Do you mean to say of your friend, and mine,” she pursued him, “that he

would dare--after all that you tell me--to---”

“No,” said Chevenix, in a desperate stew; “no, I don't mean that. I

think he would have her this moment--if he could get her. But--the

fact is--Well, you know--” and he glanced anxiously at the lady, “I've

nothing to go upon, absolutely nothing as yet; but the fact is, I'm not

sure whether she would take him, you know--now.”

“Is that possible?” was all the lady could find to say, with a throw-up

of the hands. “Is that possible?”

“Quite--with Sanchia,” said Chevenix. “Through with him, you know--got

to the bottom of him--sick of him. I believe he bores her, you know.”

Mrs. Devereux looked at him, more in sorrow than in anger, and then

walked slowly away. Most eloquent comment.

VI

Whatever may have been the net result upon Mrs. Devereux's mind of the

explanatory revelations made upon the river bank, two things became

clear as day succeeded day. One was that Miss Percival avoided her,

the other that she sought out Miss Percival. Being entirely unable to

succeed, she did not renounce her now benevolent attitude towards the

young lady, but she decided to leave Wanless.

All that she could do, she did. No wheedling of Mrs. Wilmot's could draw

any further comment from her, and she said nothing to Ingram either for

or against what she supposed now to be the desire, the honourable desire

of his heart. Oddly enough, though it was against all her upbringing,

Chevenix had so far succeeded in impressing her that she rather

respected Sanchia the more for being cool now that rehabilitation was in

full sight, and practically within touch of her hand. Chevenix, in fact,

had made her see that Sanchia was a personality, not merely a pretty

woman. You can't label a girl “unfortunate” if, with the chance of being

most fortunate, she puts her hand to her chin, and reflects, and says,

Hum, shall I? or shall I not? Short of deliberately knocking at the

girl's door, she would have done anything to exchange views. That she

could not do. She found herself waiting about in corridors and halls for

Sanchia's possible passage. Once she had marked her down in the

garden, flower-basket on arm, scissors in hand. She had been fluttered,

positively felt her heart-beats, as she sailed down in pursuit; but then

Sanchia, under the brim of her garden hat, must have divined her, for,

with a few clear words of direction over her shoulder to the young

gardener who was helping her, she had steered smoothly away, and,

without running, could not have been caught. The thing was marked, not

uncivilly, but quite clearly. What could one do?

Two more days of fine weather and perplexity, and she announced her

departure as imminent. We were at Thursday. She must positively leave on

Monday. “No more letters to write about my shortcomings,” was Ingram's

comment upon this intelligence to Mrs. Wilmot apart. “It's a mistake to

have people to stay with you who've known you all their lives. They are

for ever at their contrasts: why isn't one still a chubby-faced boy, for

instance? They see you in an Eton jacket once, and you're printed in it

for ever. So you glare by contrast, you hurt, you wound. In other words,

you have character, you see, which is dashed inconvenient to a woman who

remembers you with none. You upset her calculations--and sometimes she

upsets yours. No offence to Mrs. Devereux; but I rather wish she hadn't

come.”

Mrs. Wilmot, who had no general conversation, thought that they ought to

be “nice” to Mrs. Devereux; to which Ingram replied, snarling, that

he was always “nice” to her, but that if a woman will spend her time

writing letters or disapproving of her host, she can't expect to be

happy in such a world as ours. But the worst of Mrs. Devereux, he went

on to say, was that she couldn't be happy unless she did disapprove of

somebody. Mrs. Wilmot, aware of whom the lady did disapprove, dug holes

in the turf, and wondered what she herself ought to do. Supposing Mrs.

Devereux went on Monday, ought not she--? Now, she didn't at all want to

go just now.

At luncheon Ingram proposed a visit--to certain Sowerbys of Sowerby,

and pointedly asked Mrs. Devereux to come. “You like her, you know. It's

beyond dispute. So I do hope you'll come. I'll drive you over in the

phaeton.”

Mrs. Devereux agreed to go. Chevenix said that he should fish. He hated

calling--except on Mrs. Devereux, of course. He braved the discerning

eyes of the lady, who had already caught him at his fishing.

The phaeton safely away, he found Sanchia, as he had hoped, in the

garden. Her gauntlets were on, an apron covered her; she was flushed

with the exercise of the hoe. Struan Glyde, silent and intent, worked

abreast of her. He had just muttered something or another which had

given her pause. She had her chin on her hands, her hands on her hoe,

while she considered her reply. Then Chevenix heard her slow, “Yes, I

suppose so. I don't like it at all, but I'm afraid you're right. We are

poor creatures, made to be underneath.”

The cheerful youth rubbed his head. “Candid--what? Where _have_ we got

to now?”

Glyde had stopped in the act to hoe: he was stopping still, his blade in

the ground, but he turned his face sideways to answer her. “Not so,”

he said, “unless you will have it so. She is queen of the world who is

queen of herself.” Then Sanchia saw Chevenix, and waited for him.

“Philosophy--what?” the cheerful youth hailed them. “Plain living, hard

thinking, what? Upon my soul, you are a pair! Now, Miss Sancie, I can

expect the truth from you. What's Glyde preaching? Heresy? Schism?

Sudden death?”

“He was talking about women,” Sanchia told him.

“Ah,” the youth mused aloud. “He was, was he? Glyde on Woman. He ought

to wait for his beard to grow; then you might listen to him.”

Glyde, who was dumb in company, was hacking into the clods, while

Chevenix, to whom he was negligible, pursued his own affair.

“I say, Sancie, I'm going to ask a favour of you--not the first, by

any means; but I always was a sturdy beggar. The Lord loveth a sturdy

beggar, eh? Well, look here, I'm at a loose end again. Nevile's taken

'em out driving--to a tea-party--to the Sowerbys. I jibbed, though I was

asked. I lied, because they drove me into a corner. I couldn't face old

Sowerby's chin--and all those gels with their embroidered curates--what?

You know what I mean. I mean their church-work, and the curates they

do it for. So I said I was going fishing--which was a lie--and Mrs.

Devereux as good as said it was a lie. Now, suppose you invite me to

tea; how would that be?”

“Then you _do_ go fishing,” said Sanchia, and smiled. “Very well. I do

invite you.”

“Bravo! You're a true friend. O woman, in our hours of ease...! Trust me

for an apposite quotation ... and new, what? I believe I'm pretty good

at quotations. My people used to play a game. You write down a name on

a bit of paper; then you fold it down; then a quotation; then another

name. That's my vein of gold. Now you have it--the secret's out. I'm

coming, you know. I accept. Many thanks. What's your hour?”

“Half-past four,” she told him. He bowed, and left her with Glyde. He

turned to look at them as he left the walled garden, and saw them near

together,--Glyde vehement in his still way of undertones, she listening

as she worked.

At half-past four she received him in her room. Though her blouse was

of lace and her skirt of green cloth, she looked like a virgin of the

Athenian procession. Her clothes flowed about her, clung to her like

weed as she swam. As he met her friendly, silent welcome, he expressed

her to himself--“By the gods above, you are--without exception--the

healthiest--finest--bravest--young woman--that ever made the sun shine

in grey weather.” Aloud, he made things easy.

“Here's your tea-party, Sancie, dressed in its best, eager for the fray.

When I think of old Sowerby taking whisky-pegs while his family has tea

and curates, I bless my happy stars that I've got a friend at court--to

save me, don't you know, from the wicked man. When the wicked man--what?

You know the quotation, I expect. Not one of my best--but give me time.”

While she made tea he pried about her room, looking at photographs.

He paused here and there as one struck him, and commented aloud. “Old

Nevile, with his sour mouth. Looks as if the tongs had nipped him in the

act. Why _will_ he roll his moustache like that? It's not pretty--shows

him like a boar, with his tusks out, don't you think? But he's a

good-looking beggar, and knows it. Ah! and there you all are--or,

rather, were--all five of you! Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Vicky, you.

What a bevy! I say--” He turned to her. “I met old Vicky, for a minute,

the other day. Met her in Bond Street. Sinclair'd got the pip, or

something, down at Aldershot. Expensive complaint, seemingly. So she'd

come up to see a palmist, or some kind of an expert about him. She spoke

of you, of her own accord. I said I was coming down here.”

Sanchia's hand at the kettle was steady, but her eyes flickered before

they took the veil. “Tell me about Vicky. What did she say--of me?”

Chevenix came to the tea-table and stood by her. “I think Vicky's

all right. I do indeed. It seems to me she'd give her ears to see

you--simple ears. Sinclair, you'll find, is the trouble. He's the usual

airy kind of ass. Makes laws for his womankind, and has 'em kept. Vicky

likes it, too.”

“I suppose he is like that,” Sanchia said, as if it was a curious case.

“I have never spoken to him. He was about, of course--but Vicky took

him up after--my time.” For a moment emotion, like a wet cloud, drifted

across her eyes. “I should like to see Vicky again. It's eight years.”

Chevenix was anxious. “I do think it could be managed, you know--with

tact. I'd do any mortal thing, Sancie--you know I would, but--” He

despaired. “Tact! Tact! That's what you want.”

Her soft mood chased away. She looked at him full. “I can't use what

you call tact with Vicky. That means that I am to grovel.” She drove him

back to his photographs. He peered into the little print on the wall.

“What have we here? A domestic scene, my hat! You appear to be

bathing--well over the knee, anyhow. High-girt Diana, when no man is by.

Awfully jolly you look. But he _is_ by. Who on earth's this chap?”

He peered. Sanchia from her tea-table watched him, in happy muse. He

shouted his discovery. “I remember the chap! Now, what on earth was he

called? Your casual friend, who lived in a cart and only had three pair

of bags. Nohouse--Senhouse! That was the man.” He looked with interest

at the pair, then at Sanchia. “Mixed bathing--what?”

She laughed. “Yes--we both got wet to the skin. Percy Charnock took it

ages ago--oh, ages! Before I was out, or knew Nevile, or anybody except

you. It was ten years ago. I must have been eighteen. It was when I

was at Gorston with Grace Mauleverer--trying to save water-lilies from

drowning in green scum. He--Mr. Senhouse--came along in his cart, and

saw me, and lent me his bed for a raft--and worked it himself. That was

the first time I ever saw him--” she ended softly in a sigh: “before

anything happened.”

Chevenix listened, nodding at the photograph. “Wish to heaven, my dear,

nothing had ever happened. The less that happens to girls the better for

them, I believe. Not but what _this_ chap would have been all right. If

_he_ had happened, now! He was as mad as a hatter, but a real good sort.

Did I tell you?” He grew suddenly reminiscent. “I saw him a little more

than a year ago--with a pretty woman. Had a talk with him--asked him

to come up and have a look at you. It was when Nevile went off on this

trip. No, no, I liked old Senhouse. He was a nice-minded chap. Not the

kind to eat you up--and take everything you've got as if he had a

right to it. No. That's Nevile's line, that is. You wouldn't see Nevile

lending you his bed, or risking his life after water-lilies.”

Sanchia's eyes were narrow and critical. She peered as if she were

trying to find good somewhere in Nevile Ingram. “He'd risk anything to

get what he thought were his rights. But not upon a bed for a raft.

He'd write to London for the latest thing in coracles. He's very

conventional.”

“You have to be,” said Chevenix with sudden energy. He wheeled round

upon her as he spoke. “We all have to be. We go by clockwork. You get

the striking all wrong if you play tricks.” He resumed the photograph.

“By Jove, but that suits you. Child of Nature, what? I suppose you're

happiest when you're larking?”

“Mud-larking?” she asked him, laughing and blushing.

“Well, we'll say rampageing; going as you please.”

“Yes.” She owned to it without hesitation. “I can't be happy, I think,

unless I can do just what I like everywhere. It was one of the first

things Jack Senhouse ever taught me. He was an anarchist, you know--and

I suppose I'm one, too.”

“Your gypsy friend?” He jerked his head backwards to the photograph.

“By Jove, my dear,” he added, “you must have knocked him sideways--even

him--when you carried out his little ideas--as you did.”

She opened her eyes to a stare. She stared, rather ruefully. “Yes,” she

said, “I believe I did. I know I did. He was dreadfully unhappy. He and

I were never quite the same after that. But I couldn't help myself. It

was before me--it had to be done.”

“No, no, no!” cried he vehemently, but checked himself. “Pardon, Sancie.

We won't go over all that, but surely you see, now, that it won't do.

Now that escapade in the pond, you know. That was all right--with

only old Senhouse in the way. You must admit that you were rather

_decolletee_, to say the least of it. Now, would you say that you can do

those sort of things--go as you please, you know, anywhere?”

“Why not?” Her eyes were straightly at him.

“What! Whether you're seen or not?”

She frowned. “I don't want to know whether I'm seen or not.”

“And mostly you don't care?”

“And sometimes I don't care.”

“Ah,” said Chevenix, “there you are. Your 'sometimes' gives you away.”

She changed the subject. “Do have some tea. It will be quite cold.”

He had been staring again at the photograph--Sanchia's gleaming limbs,

the gypsy's intent face shadowed over the water. He now relinquished it

with an effort. “Thanks,” he said. “I like it cold.” He sat beside

her, and they talked casually, like old, fast friends, of mutual

acquaintance. But for him the air was charged; she was on his

conscience. Reminiscences paled and talk died down; he found himself

staring at the wall.

He resumed the great affair. “Nevile's rather jumpy, don't you think?”

Her serenity was proof. “Is he? Why should he be?”

“Ah, my dear!” cried the poor young man. “Let's say it's the old

Devereux. _Salmo deverox_, eh? Sounds fierce.”

Not a flicker. “Mrs. Devereux? What has she been doing to him?”

“Nothing,” he said; “and that's just it. She won't have anything to say

to him.”

Then she went a little too far. A man charged with friendly impulse,

charged also with knowledge, must be handled tenderly. You must not be

foolhardy. But here was bravado, nothing less. For she arched her brows,

and showed her eyes innocently wide. “Oh!” she said, “why? Why won't

Mrs. Devereux speak to Nevile?”

“Oh, come, you know.” He looked at her keenly. He didn't wink, but he

blinked. Then he crossed the room. “Look here, Sancie. Will you let me

talk to you--really--as an old friend?”

She looked up into his face, nodded and smiled. “Of course you may say

what you like.”

He sat by her, collecting himself. “Well, then, what I shall say is

just this. The whole thing is in your hands--now. You can put it square.

There's absolutely nothing in your way--now--well, now that Claire's

gone, you know.” He watched her anxiously for a sign, but got none. So

still she sat, glooming, watching herself--as on a scene.

“Mind,” he said in a new tone. “You know all about me. I jibbed at first

when you broke away. I'll own to that. I couldn't do otherwise. Why, old

Senhouse himself went half off his head about it. Anything in the world

to get you out of it, I'd have done. Any mortal thing, my dear. But

there! There was no holding you--off you went! But when once the

thing was started--the extraordinary thing was that I was on your side

directly. And so I always have been. Ask Vicky--ask your mother. I've

done, in my quiet way, what you would never have asked of me. You must

forgive me--I've defended you everywhere. I won't mention names, but

I've explained your case, only lately, in a rocky quarter--and I know

I've made an impression. I'm not much good at talking, as a rule, but I

do believe that I put the thing rather well. You make your own laws--eh?

Like Napoleon Buonaparte--eh? And somehow--the way you do it--it's all

right, eh, Sancie?”

He got nothing from her. She sat on rigid, with unwinking eyes, staring

at herself, as she saw herself on the scene. Chevenix leaned to her.

“And Nevile knows it. He believes it. He would say it anywhere. He's

difficult, is Nevile; a wayward beggar. He's been his own master since

he was sixteen; asked, and had. It's hard to make him understand that he

can't go on. But he can't, the old sweep, when you put in your say. You

know his way--he puts his desires in the shape of truisms. He states

them--that's all he has to do--they become immutable laws. Very

imposing, his desires, put like that. They've imposed upon me; they've

imposed upon _you_ in their day. Well, with a man like that, you know,

you can't take him up too short. Go slow, go slow. What was it I heard

Clyde saying to you just now? Who's queen of herself is queen of the

world--what? Now, that's quite true. One for Clyde. Apply that to old

Nevile. Queen of herself! Why, what else are you? And what's Nevile

but the blundering world in a man's skin? Well, queen it, queen it--and

there's your kingdom under your feet. Marry the old chap, Sancie. You

put everything right; you take your proper place. The county! But what

are counties to you? You smile--and you may well smile. Let the county

go hang; but there's Vicky. She's more than county to you. There's

Melusine, there's Philippa, there's Hawise; there's your good old dad,

there's your lady mother. You get 'em all. And Nevile's biting his nails

for it. And a free man. Come now.”

She had listened, that's certain; she hadn't been displeased. He had

seen her eyes grow dreamy, he had marked her rising breast. Rising and

falling, rising and falling, like lilies swayed by flowing water. That

betokened no storm, nor flood; that meant the stirring of the still

deeps, not by violent access, but by slow-moving, slow-gathered, inborn

forces. Had he had eloquence, he thought, as he watched her, he had won.

But he was anxious. She was such a deep one.

[Illustration: He had eloquence, he thought, as he watched her, he had

won. But he was anxious. She was such a deep one.]

When she spoke there sounded to be a tinge of weariness in her voice;

she dragged her sentences, as if she foresaw her own acts, and was

tired in advance. She seemed almost to be pitying her fate. At first she

looked down at her hands in her lap, at her fingers idly interweaving;

but midway of her drawn-out soliloquy--for she seemed to be talking to

herself--she turned him her eyes, and he plumbed their depths in vain.