THE winter passed quickly—spring came, a soft, slow, gentle coming.
Paul Harvey was a constant visitor at Victoria Mansions.
Sometimes he was there when Mr. Wainbridge was not, and then that was a
“white day.”
Mr. Wainbridge found Paul’s appreciation of Launa gave life a zest—it
added uncertainty and attractiveness, though _he_ intended to win. A man
can appropriate another man’s wife for walks and talks with much greater
ease than he can the girl the other man is going to marry. But Mr.
Wainbridge was enduring an amount of worry and annoyance about his
uncle’s affairs, and he was not free, while Paul was. Mr. Wainbridge
never connected him with the someone Launa had loved—was he not dead?
Had she not implied as much, more than once?
Paul had promised to remain in England until Launa’s marriage; the
indefinite prolongation was therefore borne by him with a placid
demeanour. He also had been requested to give her away—there is a
certain amount of excitement in giving “this woman to this man,” when
longing to keep her oneself, a form of death on the battlefield. Paul
liked it as well as a man can like anything he dreads and detests, and
yet with the feeling that he would not like another man to do it.
The April day was lovely. Paul was at Victoria Mansions, ready to do
what Launa wanted, hoping Mr. Wainbridge might not come.
“I want to go out,” she said; “to go far away, where I can paddle and
see the catkins on the trees and listen to the sound of the river. I
cannot stay at home and practise or do anything. I must go out.”
“‘Let me taste the old immortal indolence of life once more,’” he
quoted.
“Come,” she said.
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
They drove to Paddington, and then went by train.
The river was looking lovely—ruffled and irregular—the trees wore a
wind-swept fluffy look. The grass was fresh and green; it was spring,
and all was new.
“This is glorious,” she said, as she paddled up the stream.
The movements of her lithe body were beautiful to him—to her the motion
and spring of the canoe were splendid, as it answered every stroke and
went through the rippling water with a hiss and a rush.
“The lift of the long red swan,” he said.
“Don’t,” she replied. “How he loved it! How he loved that life!”
“And will you never come back to it?”
“I do not know. Afterwards, perhaps—yet no, never.”
“The Indians miss you. Mrs. Abram and Mrs. John often ask me about you.
In the winter there is no one to be good to them.”
“I sent them money and blankets,” she answered. “I did all I could.”
“They want _you_. Mrs. Andrew gave me a charm to bring you back. ‘A
little medicine yer know—a love potion of herbs.’”
She laughed.
“Is life here successful?” he asked. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, for some things I do. I came full of plans, and I have learned and
worked. Now I am going to be married.”
“You have, then, been successful?”
“I have learned that life is cruel.”
“To you?”
“They, my friends, believed evil of me. Did you hear it?”
“I heard it.”
“And believed?”
“Don’t ask me such questions,” he replied. “You know I could not believe
them. I think you—well, I think you the purest, best woman in the
world.”
“That is not what you were going to say. You began and you changed it.”
“You were cruel once, but you are the one woman—for me.”
“Tell me about the lakes and the woods; I long to see them, to feel the
air, and to smell the pines,” she said quietly.
They paddled on and on, sometimes talking; and it seemed like a
triumphal journey into a far-away world, with the sun and the rippling
water, glorious movement and peace, and, above all, it was perfect
because they were alone together, and away from the rest of the world.
Paul made no pretence to himself of not knowing why he was happy and why
he was miserable—happy while with Launa, miserable when away from
her—while the knowledge that she belonged to someone else was always
obtruding itself.
And Launa? To her Paul meant the old life (so she assured herself with
great frequency), her father, the Indians, the woods—everything she
loved. She was glad to have Paul with her. It was a good ending to the
chapter of singleness. And though perhaps it was not quite as she would
have liked to have planned things, perhaps all would be for the best.
The present was full of joy, the future—she could not bear to think of
it—would be blank.
“How long have you been in England?” she inquired at last.
It was odd she had never asked this question before.
“I spent two months here in the summer, then I had to go home. My
cousin, Jim Harvey—you remember him?”
“I never heard of him.”
“I thought you knew all about him. He got himself mixed up in some row
with the Indians, and so I went back. There was an Indian girl, too; he
should have married her.”
“And his name was Harvey?”
“Yes, Jim Harvey. He has married the girl. The worst of it is she is far
too good for him, and he will lead her a terrible life; but I suppose it
is best. You saw her once at that picnic at Paradise that night I shot
the horse. Do you remember?”
“I remember. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew. I thought that was what you meant—”
“No,” she answered. “I meant—never mind now what I meant.”
She put down her paddle.
“I am tired. You can paddle back,” she said wearily. “It is time to go
home. Sylvia is coming to dinner, and so is Mr. George.”
She was kneeling in the bow with her back to him.
“Launa, will you move? You will be more comfortable if you do, and I
will keep her steady,” he said. “We shall soon get back.”
“I cannot move, I am so tired.”
She almost gave a sob. Suddenly she felt impotent and weary. His
explanation had made it worse, and she ached with the hopelessness of it
all.
He paddled into the bank, got out, and pulled the canoe in sideways;
then he arranged the cushions for her in the middle.
“Now, get out while I hold the canoe, and sit there where I can see you.
Light of my eyes,” he added in a whisper, but she heard it.
He gave her a hand, put a rug over her, and asked:
“Are you comfy?”
But she could not speak, and they started again.
The lift and sweep of the paddle, and the smooth regularity thereof,
were soothing.
“Oh, the sorrow of the world!” she said. “It is unavailing. The awful
mistakes, the terrible partings—it is too dreadful. When did you come
back to London?”
“In December.”
“Why did you not come to see me before—in the summer?”
“Because I did not know your address—is that reason enough?—and I was
rather afraid of you. I could not come.”
“Sylvia is my only woman friend.”
“You imagine that.”
“I do not imagine it; but I do not care.”
At dinner that night they were an uneven number.
“We must all go in together,” said Launa. “Sylvia, come with me.”
She put her hand on Sylvia’s arm and they went first.
Mr. Wainbridge came last; he wore depression ostentatiously until after
the soup, and asked if they believed in ghosts.
“In ghosts,” inquired Mr. George. “In some ghosts. Do you believe in
them?”
“Launa does,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“I wish I could,” she answered.
“Did you ever see one?” asked Paul.
“One Sunday—it was a hot Sunday in July,” related Mr. Wainbridge, “we
were going to Lady Blake’s, and Launa said she saw one.”
“One what?” asked Paul.
“One ghost.”
“What did she do?”
“She said it was dead. Are ghosts ‘it’?” inquired Mr. Wainbridge.
“When people die they become ‘it,’” said Mr. George. “They cannot—do
not love. A man or a woman is neuter when love is over—when it is
impossible.”
“They are maligning you, Launa,” said Sylvia, with a smile. A poet had
written lines on her smile and called it divine. “Contradict them.”
“I did see a ghost,” she answered.
“Ghosts are indigestion,” said Mr. George slowly. “Have you read the new
book, Miss Cooper?”
“Whose new book?”
“It is by an unknown author who writes of the love of a married man for
some other woman. We know so much now, everyone writes of life’s
miseries; if they would only write of happiness.”
“How wrong for a man to love the other woman,” said Sylvia.
“Wrong,” repeated Mr. George; “not at all; how unavoidable!”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“How did they end it or begin it?” asked Sylvia.
“I hate a man who does nothing,” said Launa. “Love is either a secondary
consideration or the passion of a moment to them. We are merely
adjuncts—minor adjuncts.”
“Chromatic scales,” said Mr. George.
Paul ate his dinner with resolution. Launa was flushed—no doubt by the
breeze on the river, and it was very becoming. She was not a minor
adjunct.
Sylvia had grown grey looking.
She pushed away her plate quickly, and when Launa with her was leaving
the room, Launa said:
“Do not hurry into us. We are so happy together and have so much to
say.”
The men talked with indifference. They were anxious to go to the
drawing-room. Mr. George at last said impatiently:
“Come on. I am tired of sport.”
With a conversation thereupon had they concealed their anxiety to be
gone. Sport is absorbing.
In the drawing-room Sylvia, Paul Harvey, and Mr. George entertained each
other.
Launa sat by the window and was talked to by Mr. Wainbridge.
“Paul and Sylvia. Paul and Sylvia. Paul and Sylvia,” sounded with
dreadful monotony in her brain. She went to the piano and played
“Warum.”
“How you have changed!” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Sometimes I feel as if I
did not know you.”
“Are you tired of me?”
“Launa darling! tired—no, never. You are more uncertain in your
moods—you are more fascinating. I never know what you will do next.
To-day has been long without you.”
“Women take an age to learn that game killing would have no attraction
for men if the game walked up to be killed willingly.”
“Where have you been to-day, my dearest?” he asked, taking no notice of
her speech.
“On the river with Paul. And you?”
“I have been very busy and worried.”
“I am sorry. Worry is detestable.”
“Yes,” he replied, “and never ending.”
“Your aunt is still odd?”
“Very odd. She is terrible sometimes. Talk of to-morrow, dear.”
“I am going to see Sylvia.”
Mr. Wainbridge looked at her.
“Did you mind what I said about the ghosts? There are none between you
and me?”
“Ghosts? no, none.”
“And so I may not come here to-morrow?”
“No. The next day you may.”
Paul spent the evening talking to Sylvia. He left early. Mr. George and
she were alone.
“Why are you so silent?” he asked at last.
“Am I? I was thinking.”
“Of what I said at dinner?”
“What did you say?”
“Now you are offended.”
“I am very fond of dark blue serge,” said Sylvia, “very, and it is so
becoming.”
“What has that to do with what I said at dinner?”
“How can I tell what you said at dinner? Did you know I have a sister,
Mr. George? She lives in Eaton Square and is very respectable, which
means she does not work for her living, and is never in an omnibus after
four. I seldom visit her; the Square and her surroundings satisfy her.”
“And you told me this?” asked Mr. George.
“To interest you.”
“I see, I understand,” he answered.
* * * * *
“We need not decide yet what we shall do,” said Lady Blake.
“Nor do it,” said Mrs. Herbert. “I hate doing things.”
“Still it is necessary for someone to take notice of Miss Archer’s
behaviour, now that she is engaged to Mr. Wainbridge.”
“They do not talk of being married,” said Lily, with a laugh.
Lady Blake was having tea with her, it was hot and June. They were both
dressed in crepon and muslin. Lady Blake’s hat was a flower garden.
Mrs. Herbert looked bored. The heat was excessive, and she was weary.
Jack wrote to her occasionally, but he did not return, and she was tired
of Sir Ralph. Other people were also afflicted in the same way, and Mrs.
Herbert was often left out where before she had been first.
Women said her first husband had been an angel, and died to continue
one, and her second went to Cairo.
Sir Ralph was beginning to take too much for granted, and he had no
mind—pink books and papers of a light and airy kind were his
literature. Mrs. Herbert had been intellectual when desirous of
attracting Jack, and, after her long acquaintance with Sir Ralph, she
told him that old families are becoming ignorant and corrupt.
“Have you seen Launa’s voyageur?” asked Lady Blake.
“Who is he? Have I seen him?”
“An indefinite relation of hers. Have you read the _Signal_ this week? I
have not.”
“Here it is. Look at it now.”
“Listen, listen,” said Lady Blake. “‘At the Duchess of Oldharris’ small
evening party Miss Archer looked particularly well in white and black.
She delighted everyone with her playing of ‘Warum.’ She has been in
mourning for some time for her father, and has been much missed by
society!’”
Lady Blake put down the paper with slow concern.
“The Duchess of Oldharris, the _Duchess_,” she said. “My musical party
next week! When does your husband return?”
“I do not know.”
“Soon? I cannot think that it is good for you—or for him—to stay away
so long.”
“Probably not,” said Lily. “Do you always do what is good for you? I
have no doubt Cairo disagrees with him intensely.”
“I would go out to him if I were you,” said Lady Blake. “Your honeymoon
was in that Surrey garden. How blissful it was that day I called upon
you, but how short a time it lasted! You were sewing; you never sew now.
Not even a little shirt like Becky Sharp.”
“The days are no longer perfect, as they were during my honeymoon,” said
Mrs. Herbert, “though it is June.”
“You must have been misinformed,” said Lady Blake.
“Oh, no, it was June, I assure you. One does not forget that.”
“I mean about Launa. The Duchess is so particular, and it happened so
long ago. Good-bye, dear.”
She rustled away to call at the House for her husband.
Next day Launa received an invitation for the musical party—she was
even asked to play. She refused that honour.