I
"It is well known that those fight hardest who fight in vain," remarked
Lord Ronald Prior complacently. "But I should have thought a woman of
your intellect would have known better. It's such a rank waste of energy
to struggle against Fate."
He spoke in the easy drawl habitual to him. His grey eyes held the
pleasant smile that was seldom absent from them. Not in any fashion a
striking personality, this; his kindest friend could not have called him
imposing, nor could the most uncharitable have described him as anything
worse than dull. Enemies he had none. His invariable good temper was his
safeguard in this particular. The most offensive remark would not have
provoked more than momentarily raised eyebrows.
He was positively characterless, so Beryl Denvers told herself a dozen
times a day. How could she possibly marry any one so neutral? And yet in
his amiable, exasperatingly placid fashion he had for some time been
laying siege to her affections. He had shaved off his beard because he
had heard her say that she objected to hairy men, and he seemed to think
that this sacrifice on his part entitled him to a larger share of her
favour than the rest of the world, certainly much more than she was
disposed to bestow.
He had, in fact, assumed almost an air of proprietorship over her of
late--a state of affairs which she strongly resented, but was powerless
to alter. He had a little money, but no prospects to mention, and had
never done anything worth doing in all his five-and-thirty years. And
yet he seemed to think himself an eligible _parti_ for one of the most
popular women in the district. His social position gave him a certain
precedence among her other admirers, but Beryl herself refused to
recognise this. She thought him presumptuous, and snubbed him
accordingly.
But Lord Ronald's courtship seemed to thrive upon snubs. He was never in
the least disconcerted thereby. He hadn't the brains to take offence,
she told herself impatiently, and yet somewhere at the back of her mind
there lurked a vagrant suspicion that he was not always as obtuse as he
seemed.
She had been rude to him on the present occasion and he had retaliated
with his smiling speech regarding her intellect which had made her feel
vaguely uncomfortable. It might have been--it probably was--an effort at
bluff on his part, but, uttered by any other man, it would have had
almost a hectoring sound.
"I haven't the smallest notion what you mean," she said, after a decided
pause.
"Charmed to explain," he murmured.
"Pray don't trouble!" she rejoined severely. "It doesn't signify in the
least. Explanations always bore me."
Lord Ronald smiled his imperturbable smile and flicked a gnat from his
sleeve.
"Especially when they are futile, eh, Mrs. Denvers? I'm not fond of 'em
myself. Haven't much ability for that sort of thing."
"Have you any ability for anything, I wonder?" she said.
He turned his smooth, good-humoured countenance towards her. It wore a
speculative look, as though he were wondering if by any chance she could
have meant to be nasty.
"Oh, rather!" he said. "I can do quite a lot of things--and decently,
too--from boiling potatoes to taming snakes. Never heard me play the
cornet, have you?"
Beryl remarked somewhat unnecessarily that she detested the cornet. She
seemed to be thoroughly exasperated with him for some reason, and
evidently wished that he would take his leave. But this fact had not
apparently yet penetrated to Lord Ronald's understanding, for he was the
most obliging of men at all times, and surely would never have dreamed
of intruding his presence where it was unwelcome.
He sat on his favourite perch, the music-stool, and swung himself gently
to and fro while he mildly upheld the virtues of the instrument she had
slighted.
"I was asked to perform at a smoker the other night at the barracks," he
said. "The men seemed to enjoy it immensely."
"Soldiers like anything noisy," said Beryl Denvers scathingly.
And then--because he had no retort ready--her heart smote her.
"But it was kind of you to go," she said. "I am sure you wouldn't enjoy
it."
"Oh, but I did," he said, "on the whole. I should have liked it better
if Fletcher hadn't been in the chair, and so, I think, would they. But
it passed off very fairly well."
"Why do you object to Major Fletcher?" Beryl's tone was slightly
aggressive.
Lord Ronald hesitated a little.
"He isn't much liked," he told her vaguely.
She frowned.
"But that is no answer. Are you afraid to answer me?"
He laughed at that, laughed easily and naturally, in the tolerant
fashion that most exasperated her.
"Oh, no; I'm not afraid. But I don't like hurting people's
feelings--especially yours."
"I do not see how that is possible," she rejoined, with dignity, "where
my feelings are not concerned."
"Ah, but that's where it is," he responded. "You like Fletcher well
enough to be extremely indignant if anyone were to tell you that he is
not a nice person for you to know."
"I object to unpleasant insinuations regarding any one," she said, with
slightly heightened colour. "They always appear to me cowardly."
"Yes; but you asked, you know," Lord Ronald reminded her gently.
Her colour deepened. It was not often that he got the better of her; not
often, indeed, that he exerted himself to do so. She began to wish
ardently that he would go. Really, he was quite insufferable to-day.
Had he been a man of any perception whatever she would almost have
thought that he fathomed her desire, for at this point he rose in a
leisurely fashion as though upon the point of departure.
She rose also from behind the tea-table with a little inward pricking of
conscience for wishing him gone. She wondered if he deemed her
inhospitable, but if he did he disguised it very carefully, for his eyes
held nothing but friendliness as they met her own.
"Has it never occurred to you," he said, "that you lead a very
unprotected existence here?"
Something in his expression checked her first impulse to resent the
question. Her lip quivered unexpectedly.
"Now and then," she said.
"Are you a man-hater?" he asked deliberately.
She laughed a little.
"Why do you ask such an absurd question?"
He seemed to hesitate momentarily.
"Because--forgive me--wouldn't you be a good deal happier if you were to
marry again?"
Again her colour rose hotly. What did the man mean by assuming this
attitude? Was he about to plead his own cause, or that of another?
"I think it exceedingly doubtful," she replied stiffly, meeting his
steady eyes with a hint of defiance.
"You have never thought of such a thing perhaps?" he suggested.
She smiled a woman's pitying smile.
"Of course I have thought of it."
"Then you have not yet met the man to whom you would care to entrust
yourself?" he asked.
She took fire at this. It was an act of presumption not to be borne.
"Even if I had," she said, with burning cheeks, "I do not think I should
make Lord Ronald Prior my confidant."
"No?" he said. "Yet you might do worse."
Her eyes shot scorn.
"Can a man be worse than inept?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered. "Since you ask me, I think he can--a good deal
worse."
"I detest colourless people!" she broke in vehemently.
He smiled.
"In fact, you prefer black sheep to grey sheep. A good many women do.
But it doesn't follow that the preference is a wise one."
The colour faded suddenly from her face. Did he know how ghastly a
failure her first marriage had been? Most people knew. Could it be to
this that he was referring? The bare suspicion made her wince.
"That," she said icily, "is no one's affair but my own. I am not wholly
ignorant of the ways of the world. And I know whom I can trust."
"You trust me, for instance?" said Lord Ronald.
She looked him up and down witheringly.
"I should say you are quite the most harmless man I know."
"And you don't like me in consequence," he drawled, meeting the look
with eyes so intent that, half-startled, she lowered her own.
She turned away from him with an impatient gesture. He had never managed
to embarrass her before.
"I should like you better if you weren't so officious," she said.
"But you have no one else to look after you," objected Lord Ronald.
"Well, in any case, it isn't your business," she threw back, almost
inclined to laugh at his audacity.
"It would be if you married me," he pointed out, as patiently as if he
were dealing with a fractious child.
"If I----"
She wheeled abruptly, amazed out of her disdain. It was the most prosaic
proposal she had ever had.
"If you married me," he repeated, keeping his eyes upon her. "You admit
that I am harmless, so you would have nothing to fear from me. And as a
watch-dog, I think you would find me useful--and quite easy to manage,"
he added, with his serene smile.
Beryl was staring at him in wide astonishment. Was the man mad to
approach her thus?
"No," he said. "I am quite sane; eccentric perhaps, but--as you are kind
enough to observe--quite harmless. I never proposed to any woman before
in my life, or so much as wanted to, so that must be my excuse for doing
it badly. Really, you know, Mrs. Denvers, you might do worse than marry
me. You might indeed."
But at that her indignation broke bounds. If he were not mad, it made
him the more intolerable. Did he fancy himself so desirable, then, that
he had merely to fling her the handkerchief--to find her at his feet?
His impertinence transcended belief. But she would pay him back in his
own coin. He should never again imagine himself irresistible.
"Really, Lord Ronald," she said, "if I actually needed a
protector--which I do not--you are the very last person to whom I should
turn. And as to a husband----"
She paused a moment, searching for words sufficiently barbed to
penetrate even his complacency.
"Yes?" he said gently, as if desirous to help her out.
"As to a husband," she said, "if I ever marry again, it will be a man I
can respect--a man who can hold his own in the world; a man who is
really a man, and not--not a nonentity!"
Impetuously she flung the words. For all his placidity, he seemed to
possess the power to infuriate her. She longed intensely to move him to
anger. She felt insulted by his composure, hating him because he
remained so courteously attentive.
He made no attempt to parry her thrust, nor did he seem to be
disconcerted thereby. He merely listened imperturbably till she ceased
to speak. Then:
"Ah, well," he said good-humouredly, "you mustn't take me too seriously.
It was only a suggestion, you know." He picked up his hat with the
words. "A pity you can't see your way to fall in with it, but you know
best. Good-bye for the present."
Reluctantly, in response to his evident expectation, she gave him her
hand.
"I wish you to understand, Lord Ronald," she said stiffly as she did so,
"that my reply is final."
He lifted his eyebrows for a second, and she fancied--could it have been
mere fancy?--that the grey eyes shone with a certain steely
determination that was assuredly foreign to his whole nature as he made
deliberate reply:
"That is quite understood, Mrs. Denvers. It was awfully kind of you to
be so explicit. As you know, I am not good at taking hints."
And with that he was gone, unruffled to the last, perfectly courteous,
almost dignified, while she stood and watched his exit with a vague and
disquieting suspicion that he had somehow managed to get the best of it
after all.