Philip and Evelyn
Earlier on the same evening, about six o’clock to be more exact, two
young girls were playing an unequal set of tennis up at the Towers.
They were nearly of an age, between twenty-three and twenty-four, but
there was almost as much difference in their appearance as there
certainly was in their play. Celia Penterton was very pretty, fair of
complexion, slender in figure and delicate both in feature and
physique, with a grace in every movement which was quite unavailing to
impart accuracy to her strokes; she was getting badly beaten by her
friend, Evelyn Temple, who had a transparent vivacity and charm about
her which owed nothing to beauty and was playing with an easy skill
sufficient for victory without exertion. She looked a picture of
mental and bodily health as she stood on the court, laughing, full of
attraction in the simple white dress which set off the glow of her
cheeks, and swung her racket gaily into the air to mark the end of the
game.
“Play up, Celia!” she cried. “You aren’t having a look in.”
“I know; it’s hopeless playing against you, Evie,” answered Celia;
“and I’m worse than usual to-day, and besides, I am so hot.”
“D’you want to go on?”
“Not much; I can’t give you a decent game.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter, though you aren’t exactly at your best, I
must say.”
“No, I know; as a matter of fact, I’ve rather a headache.”
“My dear, why didn’t you tell me?” exclaimed Evelyn.
“Well, it wasn’t much, and I thought perhaps a set would drive it
away, but it hasn’t,” answered Celia.
“Then we certainly won’t go on.”
The two came together at the net collecting the balls and Evelyn
looked at her friend with concern. “Nothing the matter, is there?” she
asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” replied Celia doubtfully.
“If I were you, I think I should go and lie down for a bit before
dinner,” said Evelyn; “you haven’t been quite up to the mark for the
last day or two.”
“So obvious as all that?” inquired Celia, and it seemed as if the
question was not asked in a wholly idle spirit.
“Not obvious to any eyes but mine, darling,” replied Evelyn; “at least
I shouldn’t think so. Anyway, go and have a rest now; you’ll be
catching cold otherwise.”
“It might be just as well,” agreed Celia, “though I’m all right; you
needn’t be alarmed.”
“I’m not, only you are such a goose sometimes.” Evelyn put her arm
affectionately round her friend’s waist as she spoke; she was in
reality a few months the younger of the two, but in all the years of
their friendship the leadership had been freely surrendered to her.
Left to herself, she sat down on the bench beside the court and,
flinging one arm carelessly over the back, after a few moments took up
the book which she had laid down before the game. Thus engaged, she
failed to see a young man come lifelessly along the path from round
the back of the house: he saw her, however, at once, and pleasure
showed openly in his face as he struck across the grass towards the
bench. His slightly drooping shoulders and rather pale cheeks made him
look older than his real age which was just over thirty-one; his eyes
showed bright and even penetrating behind his pince-nez, but had a
tired look in them which his pleasure had momentarily displaced, and
his dark lounge suit, neat but by no means new, looked a little out of
the picture. Evelyn did not hear him until he was quite close, and
then she looked suddenly up and smiled to see him.
“Well, this is a bit of luck, isn’t it?” he said, dropping naturally
on to the other end of the bench and surveying her with an air which
plainly showed that he meant what he said.
“It entirely depends on what you call luck,” she answered lightly.
“Personally I was not complaining before; it’s a good book. Ever read
it?” She held it up.
“Yes, ages ago,” he answered; “that is, not yet, but I will if you
like, though I haven’t a moment. But hang it all, I don’t feel
literary and I hope you don’t. Where’s Celia?”
“Gone in with a headache.”
“Oh, dear; too bad on a day like this. One of the most perfect we’ve
had this year, isn’t it? And so useless—until this very minute, that
is.”
“Useless, why? You don’t look over well yourself, my friend, now that
I come to look at you.”
“I’m quite well; it isn’t that, Evelyn.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“Same old trouble, only worse. It was a bit thick that Sir Roger
should have selected to-day of all days to have what he calls a grand
clear up; yesterday, when it was raining cats and dogs, would have
been better, wouldn’t it? But I don’t mind that; after all, he can do
what work he likes when he likes, and I’m here for nothing else. But
what I do object to is his way of doing it. The first thing he said to
me, for instance, this morning when he got to his desk was ‘Now, my
lad, I’ll have you remember you’re paid to work, not loaf about and
look pretty. Why the devil wasn’t all this ready for me yesterday?’
and in that nasty hard voice of his, which always reminds me of the
shutting of a despatch box. I pointed out to him as quietly as I
could——”
“I know that quiet way of yours,” interrupted Evelyn; “it’s rather
irritating, you know, sometimes, Philip, especially to a man like Sir
Roger.”
“Well, I try not to make it so, but I can’t help the facts, can I? He
had distinctly told me a couple of days ago to leave the thing over
till to-day; and he was furious when I reminded him of what he’d said.
It seems to me sometimes that he takes a perfect delight in petty
tyranny.”
“Oh, I don’t like to think that.”
“He used not to be so bad, but he’s getting worse, and when he has a
touch of gout he really is the very deuce. As a matter of fact, I
don’t really mind his manner, except sometimes, but just lately he has
begun to hint at things.”
“What d’you mean by things?”
“Well——” he paused irresolutely and then continued, “he doubted my
word the other day, more than half suggested I was feathering my own
nest at his expense, cooked his accounts, if you want to know; and
then when he found he was wrong and I was fool enough to think he’d
apologize—not he; all he said was that I’d better be careful, he’d got
his eye on me. I tell you, Evelyn, it’s rotten.” He stared out
gloomily across the lawn.
“I’m sure it is,” she answered with real sympathy. “Tell me, how’s the
book going? That is always a great consoler, isn’t it?”
“It used to be,” he replied, “but I’m stuck. It began so well last
summer, didn’t it?”
“Yes, I liked the first part very much.”
“Well, all I’ve done since is heavy; I feel it is and I’m sure you’d
think so. I haven’t been able to get the necessary lightness, and a
tale of that sort is no good at all unless it’s told charmingly.
However,” with a swift transition to brightness, “I don’t care really
about anything else as long as I’m here. That’s the real trouble,” he
frowned heavily again and went on with a return to gloom; “he’s begun
to intimate that he’s only waiting for a chance to sack me.”
“Philip!”
“Yes, I know, and that I simply won’t bear. I’ll see that he doesn’t
get a legitimate chance, but if he makes one—and he’s quite capable of
doing it—well, let him look out for himself, that’s all.”
“Oh, come, what melodrama! I can’t believe he’s the least likely to do
anything of the sort.”
“I can easily.”
“Well, and if he did, what would, what could you do?”
“Do?” repeated Philip, in a tone of sudden ferocity. “What wouldn’t I
do?”
“You’re tired and you’re talking wildly,” said Evelyn quietly, “and
you know it. It wouldn’t matter much, would it, if he did; there are
heaps of better openings for you.”
“Wouldn’t it?” asked Philip scornfully. “You wouldn’t care, I suppose,
not a bit?”
“Don’t be absurd; I should care very much if he sacked you, as you
call it. But you might anticipate him, if you really dislike working
under him so—if it becomes unbearable, I mean; and that would be quite
different.”
“I sometimes believe you haven’t a heart at all,” he retorted. “How
would it be different? I should have to go away from here just the
same.”
“Are you so fond of the place?” she asked.
“The place! Good Lord, no!” He was taken aback by her literalness.
“Well then,” she continued, “I really can’t see what you mean.”
“Can’t you? People can be very dense sometimes. This place means you,
and I’ll put up with a lot more than I have done yet just to be with
you.”
“You’re very nice, Philip,” she answered with a change of tone, “only
you don’t mean half the flattering things you say. Why, I’m only here
sometimes; this place isn’t my home.”
“It seems to be,” he replied. “I mean—well, I don’t mean that as it
sounds. And, anyway, that’s not the point; it’s the only place in
which I ever see you or am ever likely to see you, and before I let
that old beast drive me from it, I’ll, I’ll——”
“Don’t. You mustn’t talk of him like that. He’s not as kind as he
might be, I know—I know it a great deal better than you do, Philip,
for all your work with him”—there was a note of real sadness in her
voice—“but after all he’s my host, and you’re his secretary, and we
mustn’t sit and abuse him here. Let’s talk of something else.”
“Very well,” he assented reluctantly; “only it’s a great relief; the
man who invented swearing knew very well what he was about; it has
prevented a multitude of crimes—but on your head be it. What shall we
talk about? The beautiful sunshine or your irresistible charm?”
“You are too ridiculous for words sometimes,” she laughed. “If I
thought you meant a word of what you say I should be very angry with
you.”
“Oh, do,” he pleaded. “I’ve seen you in many moods and I don’t know
one in which you’re not more fascinating than any other girl I ever
met. But I’ve never seen you angry, and it must be worth watching.”
“It is,” she acknowledged—“from a distance, and I said ‘angry with
you.’”
“Yes, I admit the direction of the blow might make a difference; I’ve
no doubt you can hit straight.”
“Perhaps; I don’t know. The only time I’ve ever really been angry—I
don’t count just flyings out and in again, you know; they’re like the
pebbles on the beach both for quantity and importance—but really
angry, I didn’t hit at all; I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have done the
least bit of good, only made things worse.”
The lightness had dropped from her voice; she was obviously speaking
of something which touched her nearly still, and his tone changed in
sympathy.
“When was that?”
“It was when John was driven away from home.”
“Oh, yes,” he murmured.
“It has meant more to Lady Penterton and to Celia than they will ever
acknowledge—and never to speak to him again. Oh, it was odious! You
would hardly remember it,” she went on more quietly, “it must be
nearly ten years ago.”
“I do,” he said. “It was soon after I came. John and I were friends,
of a sort, you know, and, as a matter of fact, it was John who
originally recommended me to Sir Roger.”
“Was it? You have never told me that.”
“Well, there was no reason why I should; there wasn’t much in it. I
mean, it was my references rather than his recommendation which got me
the place. I suppose I didn’t mention it because he’s the forbidden
subject. D’ you know, I shouldn’t wonder if that isn’t at the bottom
of Sir Roger’s treatment of me. I never thought of it before.”
“It is possible,” she agreed thoughtfully; “but I don’t know, he’s
like that to everybody. Only yesterday I heard him using dreadful
language to old Fairlie; called him a Mid-Victorian fossil with
epithets thrown in I won’t repeat.”
“I wonder the old man stands it,” remarked Philip.
“He wouldn’t, not for a day, if it was a case of Sir Roger alone, but
he’ll live and die with Lady Penterton and Celia.”
“Yes, he’s a faithful old card.”
“He’s a dear,” exclaimed Evelyn warmly, “only he does require living
up to. It’s too comic the way he shows his disapproval when Celia and
I are being frivolous; I sometimes can’t help shocking him just for
the fun of it, and he ought to know us by this time.”
“It seems to me,” remarked Philip casually, “that we are straying from
the subject. I don’t object to abusing Sir Roger, as I think you know;
he’s a poisonous——”
“Now, then!”
“Well, as I was saying,” he continued imperturbably, “I don’t object
to discussing you, angry or otherwise, but I do draw the line at
discussing Fairlie.”
“A very respectable subject.”
“Yes, that’s just it; respectability is the curse of conversation.”
“You’re now in a pretty dilemma,” she said, rising; “you don’t object
to discussing me, but you do object to discussing a respectable
subject: thank you, sir.” She made him a mock bow, and started merrily
for the house.
“No, don’t go!” he pleaded. “Please don’t; I’ll be very good.”
“Even that prospect cannot detain me,” she answered over her shoulder;
“I shall be late for dinner as it is.”
He watched her enter the house and then mechanically lit a cigarette.
“Damn!” he said forcibly. “I haven’t said one single thing I meant to,
and I’ve said a great many I didn’t mean to at all.”