MR. ARCHER had gone on a trip to Norway.
Mrs. Phillips was at Marlow with some friends, Mr. Herbert was there
also.
Mrs. Phillips had written to Launa telling her the new shirts were
becoming and the new punt a success. From this Launa gathered that Mr.
Herbert, as well as the punt, was agreeable. Lily had too much
experience to give in to his supplications at once, or to agree with him
that love was of any avail in life. She said marriage rhymed with
carriage very properly, and love with nothing. Besides, she was aware
that after a woman has said “I love you” frequently there is nothing
left to say.
Launa was all alone.
This particular afternoon she had arrayed herself in a wonderful
tea-gown—a combination of Greece and Paris with flashes of audacity
thrown in, green and cream and gold—it was loose where it is pretty to
be loose, and tight where it showed the curves of her figure.
She was playing to herself—Chopin and Wagner. Her wrists had gained in
strength, her tone in volume, and her mind—that, too, had gained in
experience and insight. The world was opening to her—undreamt of
possibilities intruded sometimes—but Lily’s ideas of taking the goods
the gods give to-day while never thinking of to-morrow, were attractive.
Yet Launa could not forget Paul; in her heart she believed in the future
“Goldene Zeit” which _must_ come.
It was impossible for her to realise that she could not command
fate—destiny. She had assumed the command once, that day with Paul, and
now she regretted it. She could not write to him; everything was against
that, and if he were to come over, as she often hoped he would, how much
better would it be? The Indian girl came between them. She knew her
father would never consent to any marriage between herself and Paul.
Launa had cultivated an ideal of women’s behaviour to other women; they
should always support the wronged woman, even when it means losing a
hearts desire. Until it meant losing her own heart’s desire she had
derived much joy from this theory, now she realised that no one can be
happy on a theory.
She played a Chopin study: relentless fate—a chilling, creeping fiend
of Impossibility—went through it, which mocked the delusive sound of
far-away joy and happiness somewhere—the indefinite somewhere.
She heard a faint rustle of a _portière_ behind her, but she played on.
When it was over she put her head in her hands, then let her hands fall
with a crash upon the keys. The sound expressed her feelings, the
discord was a relief.
“How do you do?” said some one softly behind her.
She started and turned round to see Mr. Wainbridge. There were tears in
her eyes enough to soften them as she looked up at him. She did not rise
hurriedly, or look startled as the majority of women would have done,
but held out her hand, which he took.
“Shall I go away?” he asked. He admired every detail of her appearance,
and the look in her eyes surprised him. “You would like to be alone and
I cannot bear to leave you,” he said slowly, while still holding her
hand.
His expression and intonation were not lost on her—they meant power in
herself; he could not leave her; and the desire of power comes after
love in the aspirations of some women.
“No, stay,” she said. “Sit down.”
He chose a chair near her and the silence was restful—most women
consider it fatal. He had begun to compare her with other women.
“You heard my discord?”
“I heard it,” he replied.
“And interpreted it?”
“No, I cannot say that.”
“I will play to you,” she said, rising with a quick litheness which
reminded him of a serpent.
She played Liszt’s arrangement of Mendelssohn’s “Auf Flügeln des
Gesanges.”
“Thank you; I have enjoyed it intensely,” he said, when she had
finished. “‘Thank you’ is poor—it cannot express my meaning. You play
magnificently.”
“I am glad you think so,” she replied. “When you came I was wishing I
could do nothing. You understand? To acquiesce is happiness if one knows
no better.”
“But if one does know? Believe me, acquiescence is misery. The wings of
song carried you somewhere far away?”
“How do you know?” she asked suddenly. “To fight, to be, and to do, are
the best.”
“Like our childish friend the verb; you have left out to suffer,” he
suggested softly.
She laughed, and he felt baffled.
“Let us go and have tea.”
“On the principle of feed a man when he bores you,” Mr. Wainbridge said
with irritation.
“No, not at all. I love my tea, and it will be cold. Tell me first how
you like my music-room? It is my own particular abode; you were admitted
by mistake.”
“May I be admitted again?”
“Perhaps—tell me about my room?”
He had forgotten to look at the surroundings. The room was long, and
rather high—the walls were a dull rich cream colour; quantities of
flowers were arranged everywhere, principally irises with their long
leaves, in immense dull brown jars. Standing near the piano was a
eucalyptus tree, its dull grey-green leaves hung over Launa. Green,
brown, and cream were the colours in the room, with red here and
there—the warm red of autumn leaves.
“The room suits you,” he replied.
Mr. Wainbridge found personal conversation was over with the change of
room. She talked of the last new book, and of bicycling. He made himself
agreeable. He was a prudent young man, and well received everywhere;
plain daughters of dukes and marquises were glad to talk to him—he was
a Possibility; there was a doubt owing to his uncle and the Plymouth
Sister. There was a legend about Mr. Wainbridge that he once had loved
someone of the lower classes—the someone was indefinite—it was
supposed she had died or married. Some people gave Mr. Wainbridge credit
for the virtue of forsaking her.
They had finished tea when Mr. George was announced. He had a large book
with him. It was his own book of proverbs, and he brought it to present
to Launa.
“Precept is better than example,” he began. “Don’t you think so,
Wainbridge? I always have set a good example, but—”
“Mrs. Carden,” said the maid, and the rest of Mr. George’s sentence was
lost in the rustle of that lady’s entrance.
She was arrayed principally in bugles. She looked war-like, and as if
she might suddenly sound the call to battle on one of her ornaments.
Launa introduced the men to her. Mrs. Carden accepted tea, and observed
that George was away.
“I am here,” whispered Mr. George softly. “Does she want me?”
Launa frowned at him.
“Yes,” she replied; “he is in Norway. I heard from him to-day.”
“I am sure Mrs. Carden will agree with me,” said Mr. George agreeably,
“about proverbs. Precept _is_ better than example. Miss Launa, your
father plainly thinks so. He is away enjoying himself. He sets you a bad
example, but his precepts are excellent. My edition of the proverbs is
so convincing.”
Mrs. Carden gazed at him, her cake in her hand half-way to her mouth,
which was open.
“Is it really precept is better than example? Did Solomon say it? I only
know his proverbs. I brought my son up on them.”
She was rather at sea as to Mr. George’s position, he seemed so
self-assured and so moral. Could he be the head of a new sect, or the
editor of a paper?
“Solomon says, ‘The lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb,’” said
Mrs. Carden. “He is a very wise man.”
“That is not a mere precept,” said Mr. Wainbridge softly. “He said it
from experience.”
“Solomon’s example was variable,” said George.
“But he was very wise,” observed Mrs. Carden.
“Very,” said George solemnly. “Precept is better than example.”
“What?” she asked, “surely you have made a mistake, and the true version
is ‘example is better than precept.’”
She wore an air of triumph, and glanced proudly round her.
“Mr. George is writing a book,” said Launa, “on proverbs. He is—”
“Correcting the faults of the world,” said Mr. George, humbly.
“A necessary task,” said Mrs. Carden, “in these degenerate days. Mr.
M^{c}Carthy, who preaches at St. Luke’s, Launa (I advise you to go and
hear him), is a son of Dr. Willis, in the faith—”
“What a good name. I did not know that was what they called it,” said
Mr. George softly; “but add in love—in faith and love.”
“Miss Archer was playing to me,” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Have you heard
her?”
He addressed his question to Mrs. Carden, who appeared perturbed.
“No. I am sure she can play. But I dislike music excessively. I played
myself once; and my son has a flute. I find it disturbing.”
“There is so much wind needed for the flute,” said Mr. George. “It is an
instrument which reminds one of a hurricane.”
“I love a penny whistle,” said Launa. “I can play ‘Honey, my honey,’ on
mine.”
“Play it now,” said Mr. George. “Please, Miss Archer. I really cannot
call you Miss Archer any longer. Miss Launa is so much prettier; and
Launa is the prettiest name in the world.”
“You may call me Launa if you like. I never was called Miss Archer as
much as I have been since I came to England. I will play the penny
whistle for you some day. Mrs. Carden would not like it now.”
“Pray do not mind me; I must go. I am always at home at half-past five;
I dine at six. I came, my dear Launa, to ask you to come and spend a few
quiet days with me while your father is away. Charlie is also away.”
“Thank you. It is very kind of you to think of me,” replied Launa. “I
cannot come and stay, for I promised my father I would not leave the
flat just now. You see all our servants are new, and he would not like
me to leave them alone.”
“How terrible if they danced in your music room,” said Mr. Wainbridge,
with a smile.
“Terrible,” said Launa.
“There is no reason why we should not dance there,” observed Mr. George.
“Example! precept! Let us dance.”
“I think, Launa, it would be much better for you to come to the shelter
of an English home, during the time of your father’s absence. It is not
proper for you to remain here alone.”
“I prefer a Canadian shelter,” said Launa, with sweetness.
“Are you having music lessons, dear Launa?” asked Mrs. Carden. “And have
you taken up any serious study, yet?”
“I go to Herr Winderthal’s twice a week and play for him, and with him.
He has two other men for the violin and the ’cello; we play trios and
quartettes. You know the quartette with ‘Die Forelle,’ motif by
Schubert?”
“Alone?” inquired Mrs. Carden, with apprehension.
“Alone? No. Three people play in a trio, and four in a quartette,” said
Launa.
Mr. George laughed, and said:—
“No one will listen to me. And I do so want to explain my proverb to
you, Miss Launa. You see, if a woman has a brutal temper she does
absolutely as she likes, and never sets an example; her precepts are
obeyed, she has a good time, the best; and you see a saint whose example
is quite heavenly, does any one imitate her? No, they only make her do
more, work harder, and set a better example. Then they admire her.”
“You have met that woman?” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Several of them,” said the other.
“Good-bye,” began Mrs. Carden. “I am disappointed in you, Launa.”
Launa did not inquire the reason of her disappointment, but shook hands
with her, accompanying her to the door, followed by the two men.
“Come to me when you are in difficulties,” said Mrs. Carden. “Your
housemaids—”
She waved her parasol as the lift bore her down, and went home in a
state of agitation; for in the future Launa would have great
possessions, and the Carden exchequer was low. Could it be that the
young man with the proverbs had discovered this? That he would desire
Launa?
She resolved to invite herself to lunch with Launa the next Sunday, and
to make Charlie call the day of his return.