THE Court, the ancestral home of the Wainbridges, was purchased by the
present owner’s father (with the furniture and the portraits) from a
family whose possessions consisted of a very ancient title and many
debts. Common sense was not included in their inheritance. That they
could ever live with a plain cook and a house-parlourmaid and pay their
debts never occurred to them.
The Court was built in a circular shape, with what Lady Wainbridge
called “heathen pillars,” and a long flight of steps led up to the door.
The gardens were beautiful and the flowers took prizes at shows. The
house was dreary and not clean. The servants were celebrated for their
piety, therefore other virtues were not required; most of them were
“reclaimed.”
Lord Wainbridge was in the garden when his nephew arrived. Lady
Wainbridge considered fresh air on Sunday a sin, except what little was
imbibed when going to and from church in a brougham at eleven o’clock.
She held a “Gospel Reunion” in the drawing-room after lunch, which her
husband refused to attend.
For some time the two men admired the roses; they were late ones, and a
new kind.
“I did not come to see Miss Archer,” said the elder man, “because you
never asked me to do so. You made no formal announcement of your
engagement to me.”
“Launa has been in mourning for her father. Nothing is settled—yet.”
“It will be soon? I am tired of this life,” said Lord Wainbridge. “I
want to be free. I am going to make this place over to you, Hugh.”
His nephew started.
“To me? I cannot express my sense of your goodness to me.”
“Get married soon,” answered his uncle; “when there is an heir I shall
feel happy. Your aunt dislikes the Court, and after you marry I shall
not feel the need of being even respectable. I can live as I like.”
“You are too good to me. I cannot tell you what I feel.”
He felt his thanks were poor, stilted, and feeble, but he did not know
how to express himself better.
“I should like to come and see Miss Archer.”
“Call her Launa,” said his nephew. . . . “You believe in marriage?”
“I believe in yours, of course, and in my own—we all believe in what
is. Marriage exists—is it a failure? For individuals sometimes, for the
many—no, I suppose not, for they still marry. You will be happy.”
“I hope so.”
“I admired Miss Archer—she is a living girl. Your aunt will also go to
see her—I believe this week is a week of solitude and seclusion with
your aunt, but afterwards she will go. You must prepare Miss Archer for
some disagreeableness and loud prayers. Your aunt is afflicted in that
way on these interesting occasions.”
“Yes,” said the other.
“I should like to have Launa here to stay for a few days; but I fear she
might not be very happy. What is your opinion?”
“I will tell her. I am sure she will be grateful to you for all your
kindness to us both, but—she is uncertain, and aunt Jane’s remarks
might affect her.”
“Uncertain! She loves you? I felt sure when I saw her that it was love.
Why is she uncertain?”
“I do not know . . . perhaps I am wrong. Girls often are . . . odd.”
“Sometimes I have hoped you would marry someone with a title, but I like
that girl. I received the announcement of your engagement with
indifference—it seemed to be only the binding of another man; but
now—”
“You wish my marriage to take place soon? You feel as if it would leave
you freer—”
“It would make you happier, and me also. I should not be backward about
settlements.”
“My aunt may die, and you probably will marry again—”
Lord Wainbridge shook his head.
“No. I shall settle two thousand a year on Miss Archer. She has money,
also, I understand?”
“You really desire my marriage?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I will arrange it as quickly as possible.”
“And I may come and see Launa?”
“My dear uncle, do not ask if you may. I am so grateful, more than
grateful to you. I hope, and I am sure Launa will feel as I do, that you
will make a second home with us.”
And so they parted.
For some days after his conversation with his uncle Mr. Wainbridge found
that solitary discourse with his beloved was impossible. She eluded him,
and his news grew stale and lost its power of delighting him. Launa had
killed his triumph. She let him kiss her forehead sometimes, but they
had no twilight walks and no talks.
Any reminder of their approaching marriage was received by her in
silence, and he discovered that whereas formerly his love for a woman
always cooled at the idea of the approach of matrimony—his
pre-matrimonial love was but a star which paled before the heat and
light of the rising hymeneal sun. _Now_ his love was the sun, hot sun,
which dried up and withered everything; it made his life one intense
longing for her. His passion mastered him; everything was subservient to
it. He was possessed by one idea, and longed to marry her and soon. He
wanted her for his own—absolutely—body and soul. She did not love as
he loved; he would kiss her into it—kiss her to know nothing but his
love for her. Oh, God, that it should take so long, and need so much
patience!
If Launa were only alone! There were Harvey and Bolton—and Paul he
feared most of all. He was a prey to uncomfortably apprehensive
thoughts, and all day long he had to talk of the garden or of croquet,
while the sun of desire was burning him up, and the days were a
weariness.
One day Launa was writing letters.
He came in.
“Allein,” he quoted, “zum ersten mal allein.”
She rose hurriedly and glanced at the door which he had shut. It was
raining; the windows were closed.
“I am seriously thinking of looking after my affairs in Canada. It would
be a long journey,” she said.
“In Canada?” he repeated. “What about your promise to me? Our marriage?”
“I thought you had forgotten about marriage. It is some time since we
talked of love—we have talked very little about marriage.”
She undid her scent bottle on her chatelaine.
“Dearest,” he murmured, taking her hand while his heart beat
tumultuously. He thought she was jealous, even though he knew she did
not love him as he loved her, yet he believed, with the invincible
belief of man, that she could be jealous of him. “You must not go to
Canada alone. We will go there on our honeymoon!”
This proposition, sweet as it appeared to him, evidently did not raise
any feeling of exhilaration in her.
“Canada is too far away for a honeymoon. You would have nothing to do
there.”
“We will go to Paris.”
“Very well,” she replied.
Her calmness maddened him.
“Launa, darling, try to love me. I care for you so much; you are all the
world to me. I love you—I love you!”
He took her in his arms, and it had all the appearance of a passionate,
willing embrace. Paul was just going to open the window to come in.
Launa did not see him—he turned round and walked away, and Mr.
Wainbridge let her go.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “I hate it, loathe it, and if it were not for
you and my pity—my pity, do you hear? I would . . . Sit there and talk
rationally. I am a cold stone. I hate love-making, and you are going to
be my husband. Have you forgotten the conversation you and I had at
Victoria Mansions?”
He sat down by her, and did not answer her question. Instead, he told
her all that Lord Wainbridge had said.
“Darling! my beloved! May I tell him it will be soon? Our marriage.”
“Soon?” she repeated drawing away her hand. . . . “I am so lonely, and
you are no help. I wish I had someone to help me.”
“Let me.”
“You can’t; don’t you see that? Well, no matter. Will you wait until
after lunch—until this evening? Then I will give you an answer.”
“My uncle is anxious to know you. He has been so good to us. We will
repay him by being good to him. He needs it.”
“I know; I know.”
“Have you seen the _Times_?” asked the Member for Hackney, advancing
with assurance and sitting down. The _Times_, he knew, was in the
drawing-room; he had just put it down. He had also seen Paul Harvey’s
face as he passed the window. Mr. Bolton had no particular feeling for
Paul except that of wishing him out of the way. Harvey’s countenance
looked as if he meant to go—somewhere. Such a resolution could only
portend various developments with Mr. Wainbridge.
Mr. Bolton had just heard and seen in the _Times_, that he was beyond
all doubt Lord Fairmouth.
Miss Cooper had hay fever for two days; no doubt this was due to the
second crop of hay having just been cut. Her mother explained this at
great length. Sylvia suffered intensely, and her eyes were very red.
Everyone pitied her, and she stayed all day in her room; Mrs. Cooper
could not stay with her for long, because hay fever is infectious.
“Poor Fairmouth is really dead,” said the Member for Hackney.
“And you are Lord Fairmouth now,” said Launa slowly.
She was thinking of something else; but it appeared to him as if her
meditations were about him and his good fortune.
“Yes,” he replied.
Mr. Wainbridge left the room. The house was very quiet. He looked for
Paul, but he could not find him. Paul had gone away in the canoe.
Mr. Wainbridge, therefore, was obliged to control the irresistible
desire to confide in Paul, and in him only. Paul took such an interest
in Launa, so did Lord Fairmouth, but Mr. Wainbridge did not fear him.
It was after dinner, during which meal Mrs. Cooper again discussed hay
fever, and the depression consequent thereupon. Mr. Wainbridge was very
silent. Lord Fairmouth recommended eucalyptus, and Launa looked pale,
even anxious. Paul and the canoe had not returned, and it was growing
dark, with a strong wind from the north-east. After dinner she was very
restless and wandered about, then she began to play the piano.
Lord Fairmouth went away to write, and Mrs. Cooper retired to bed. She
had old-fashioned ideas as to lovers, and regarded them as something
almost indecent, requiring constant and frequent privacy.
Launa played on. The wind was shrieking, and then roaring through the
tree tops. At last it gave a sudden scream and a yell. She jumped up,
and her hands fell on the keys with a crash. A door banged, and a gust
of wind clamoured against the window and howled outside.
“Where is Paul?”
She had been playing a Chopin study—number XI.
“Chopin is sometimes hysterical,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Here I am, Launa,” and Paul came in. “You were frightened. The wind is
making a tremendous noise. When I opened the front door it was howling
and shrieking, and nearly blew the lamps out.”
He took both her hands, and held them firmly. Her colour had come back,
and she breathed quickly. There was a pause. Mr. Wainbridge strolled
across the room.
“Launa, now is the time to tell Harvey your decision. When shall we be
married?”
Paul let her hands go.
“When?” he asked. “Before I return to Canada? I am going soon.”
“In September,” said Mr. Wainbridge.
“Yes,” said Launa. “Paul, you have not forgotten your promise. You will
give me away?”
Mr. Wainbridge gave a sigh of relieved tension. He had dreaded something
different. The wind and the _étude_ had affected his nerves also.
After he retired to his bed that night he remembered that Launa had said
she was going to Canada. Paul had said so too. Had there been anything
in this mutual resolve to go to Canada. Would he have lost her? The
possibility—nay, the certainty—of this showed him his proposal for
their marriage was only just in time. Her indifference was not the least
of her attractions for him.
In two days Lord Wainbridge came to see her. They talked of the weather
and of marriage, both of them changeable varieties, and of absorbing
interest.
Lord Fairmouth went up to town, and as he went he remembered the
Fisheries. Launa and he had talked very little about them. He had left
the House of Commons, and she was going to be married.