Lawrence Blake.
While Paddy and Jack were sitting on the table a week previously,
swinging their feet and discussing the news of the Blakes’ home-coming,
just brought by Aunt Mary and Aunt Jane, Lawrence Blake, in his own
special sanctum in Cadogan Place, lounged in a big arm-chair, and
considered the interesting subject of his own boredom. He was
particularly bored with his mother and his two sisters. Having seen a
good deal of them in the last three years, he was anxious for a spell
of existence without them.
And now his mother wanted him to go across to Ireland with them before
his projected tour to India. And it was so beastly damp and dull in
Ireland—so altogether unpleasant. Then there would be this tiresome
“coming-out” dance of the girls; such a fatuously idiotic idea to have
a preliminary “coming-out” at home, and then repeat it in grander
measure in London. He didn’t mind going out of his way occasionally to
please his mother, but to be bothered with Doreen and Kathleen was too
much to expect. To his august personality they were so young, and
crude, and foolish. He told himself he was bored to death with their
aimless vapourings, and this time he must really follow his own
inclinations, and let them go to Ireland without him—at which decision
he got up leisurely, and prepared to stroll round to the club.
But almost at the same moment, the door opened, and a soft voice said,
“Are you here, Lawrence?”
An antique Egyptian screen of beautiful workmanship hid the interior of
the room from the door, and it was not until an intruder had passed it,
he could tell if the room were occupied or not.
“I am,” replied Lawrence casually; “but I am just going out.”
Mrs Blake closed the door and advanced into the room, seating herself
in the big chair he had vacated.
“I want you to come to Ireland with us,” she began at once, with a note
of persuasion in her voice. “There is so much you ought to see to on
the estate, before you start off again travelling.”
Lawrence remained standing on the hearthrug.
“May I smoke!” he asked, with a mixture of indifference and courtesy
that was entirely typical of him.
His mother inclined her head, and looked anxiously into his face.
It was, perhaps, noticeable that, in spite of his non-responsive
manner, she in no wise appeared abashed, merely reiterating her
request.
But then who should know a man better than his mother, if she happen to
have been blessed with discernment? With Lawrence and Mrs Blake this
was emphatically the case, hence the direct opening of the subject,
without any preliminary leading up. Mrs Blake knew when she came to the
smoke-room that he had made up his mind not to go; she knew that he
would be politely unresponsive and calmly difficult. As a matter of
fact, he almost always was, but she had found that directness was
better than any amount of circumvention, and, though he could not be
driven, he could just occasionally be led.
“Why do you want me to go?” he asked. “It only causes dissension, and
you know more about the estate than I do.”
“Perhaps. But I ought not. Do you never intend to take it in hand?”
“I did not think of doing so, until most other things had failed.”
She was a clever woman, who had won through a good deal of stress and
difficulty, with a husband she adored and a son she worshipped, both of
whom had been what is generally described as “peculiar tempered.” If
she had cared for either of them less, the home would have been
pandemonium. Fortunately for all concerned, her love had stood every
test, and her natural cleverness had been content to expend itself on
tactfully managing her male belongings. The people who had only a
superficial insight, and were at considerable pains to pity her, might
have saved their sympathy. Mrs Blake was eminently no object for
condolence. A clever woman must have some outlet for her cleverness,
and why not direct it toward managing two interesting, if difficult,
specimens of the male sex? If she truly loves them, what could be more
engrossing, and what reward more enthralling, than the intervals of
devotion and tenderness won by consummate tact? Certainly, these had
never been missing; both men, below the surface awkwardness and
obstinacy, unswervingly returned her devotion.
It was the other members of the household who suffered generally, and
felt aggrieved at the male belongings with which they had been saddled.
It was in allusion to this that Mrs Blake now remarked:
“Kathleen and Doreen would not quarrel with you, if you spared them
your sarcasms.”
“Kathleen and Doreen are silly little fools,” coldly.
“It is only that they don’t understand you,” she told him, “and you
must remember they are very young. Of course you often aggravate them
purposely, when you are not pointedly indifferent to their very
existence, and they are quite justified in resenting it.”
“Then why not let well alone, and go to Ireland without me?”
“This dance is to be a sort of family affair, and I want you to be
present.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and his thin, clever face broke into a
half-satirical smile; “You don’t want me to aggravate the girls with my
presence, but you want me to be there. Couldn’t I please you best by
promising to be there in spirit?”
“Why don’t you want to come?” ignoring his flippant air.
“Why do you want to go?” he retaliated.
“We have been absent so long and I must bring the girls back to town
for the winter. It is a good opportunity to put in two months there.”
“My dear mother, Mourne Lodge has got on so nicely without us for three
years, it will quite safely manage to exist until July. I dislike
rushing about needlessly. In an age of exclamation stops and
interrogation marks, couldn’t you support me in trying to be a
semicolon for a little while?”
She smiled, but refused to humour him.
“You are to come, Lawrie,” she said, getting up, “and you are to try
and be nice to the girls. Perhaps if you were to forget they were
sisters?” significantly.
“They will not allow me to. No one but sisters would go out of their
way to be so persistently aggravating.”
“Except a brother,” with a little smile.
“Perhaps; but the brother, you must remember, is not always there from
choice.”
“Well, you won’t see much of each other in Ireland, as they will be out
all day with their own friends. Come, Lawrence—put up with us for a few
weeks longer; your companionship will mean so much to me.”
And it was then one of those swift and sudden changes transformed his
face, as it had done the face of his father, and made everything worth
while. He bent down with a look of fond amusement, and kissed her
forehead.
“I don’t know why in the world I went to the trouble of making up my
mind not to come,” he said; “I should have saved my energy, realising
that a wilful woman always has her way.”
Mrs Blake smiled a little wistfully, and moved toward the door, which
he hastened to open for her. She was thinking if only she could conjure
up that lightning smile, with its extraordinary charm, a little
oftener, or if only he would—
But what was the use of expecting Lawrence to be rational and
considerate. Had he ever been? He was tired of gaiety, yet he hated
monotony. Tired of idleness, yet indifferent to his estate. Tired of
flirting, yet averse to considering marriage. Full of latent
possibilities of achieving, that he was too indolent to develop. She
hoped someone, or something, would sting him alive some day, but at
present he persisted in adopting the _rôle_ of the _blasé_ looker-on,
and no one appeared to have any influence over him whatever.
For his part, left alone, Lawrence once more sank into the roomy,
inviting-looking chair, instead of going out, and watched his cigarette
smoke with a cogitating air.
He was thinking of Eileen Adair.
She had probably grown prettier than ever since he last saw her, and he
had an artist’s appreciation of beauty. He was glad that she would be
there. Her high-flown idealistic sentiments would probably be somewhat
boring, but, on the other hand, she was simple and natural, with a
simpleness and naturalness that were decidedly refreshing for a change.
And then there was that young fool, Jack O’Hara, at the rectory, who
could look such outspoken dislike, and seemed to develop rather a
sudden fancy for Eileen whenever Lawrence was winning her smiles, and
he, himself, overlooked. It would be rather amusing to annoy him.
Yes, since he must go to humour his mother, he was glad Eileen would be
there. They would go on where they left off for a little while. He was
not quite sure at what stage that was, but it involved many very sweet,
serious upward glances from a pair of exceedingly beautiful eyes, and
some enlightening on his part that was entertaining, because so
surprising. Of course he would be circumspect, and not intentionally
mislead her. He would, in fact, make a point of shocking her, partly
for her own sake, and partly, because, when a girl became fond of him,
she usually bored him to extinction at once. After which, he once more
got up and prepared to go to the club.
“I shall not be in to dinner,” he told the butler as he went out,
having forgotten to mention the fact to his mother, and half an hour
later he was making a fourth at bridge at a table called the Monte
Carlo table, because the players always played for specially high
stakes; and, except with an interval for dinner, would continue until
the early hours of the morning.
And on the mountain side, Eileen was dreaming, and Jack was trying to
fathom her, and both were alike in vain.