The weather was warm. By contrast with the cool air of the bay he
had lately crossed, it seemed hot to Lawrence when he entered the
library. Barely glancing at the room, he went straight to one of the
doors which opened upon the verandah, and going out, sat down
discontentedly in a big cushioned straw chair. It was very warm, and
it seemed suddenly very still. In the distance he could hear the
wheels of the buckboard in the avenue, as the groom took it round to
the stables, and out of the close shrubbery he caught the sharp, dry
sound of footsteps rapidly retreating along a concealed cinder path.
The air scarcely stirred the creeper which climbed up one of the
pillars of the verandah and festooned its way, curtain-like, in both
directions to the opposite ends. On his right he could see the
broad, sloping lawn, all shadowed now by the tall trees beyond.
Without looking directly at it, he felt that the vivid green of the
grass was softened and that there must be gold in the tops of the
trees. The sensation was restful, but his eyes stared vacantly at
the deep shrubbery which began at the foot of the verandah steps and
stretched away under the spruces at his left.
He was exceedingly discontented, though he had just arrived, or,
perhaps, for that very reason among many other minor ones. He had
never had any cause to expect from Fanny Trehearne anything in the
way of sentiment, but he was none the less persuaded that he had a
moral right to look for something more than chaff and good-natured
hospitality, spiced with such vigorous reproof as "don't be a spoilt
baby."
The words rankled. He was asking himself just then whether he was a
"spoilt baby" or not. It was of great importance to him to know the
truth. If he was a spoilt baby, of course Miss Trehearne had a right
to say so if she liked, though the expression was not complimentary.
But if not, she was monstrously unjust. He did not deny that the
accusation might be well founded; for he was modest as well as
sensitive, and did not think very highly of himself at present,
though he hoped great things for the future, and believed that he was
to be a famous artist.
The more he told himself that he had no right to expect anything of
Fanny, the more thoroughly convinced he became that his right
existed, and that she was trampling upon it. She had ordered him
into the library in a very peremptory and high-and-mighty fashion to
wait for her, regardless of the fact that he had travelled
twenty-four hours, and had acquired the prerogative right of the
traveller to soap and water before all else. No doubt he was quite
presentable, since the conditions of modern railways had made it
possible to come in clean, or comparatively so, from a longish run.
But the ancient traditions ought not to be swept out of the way,
Louis thought, and the right of scrubbing subsisted still. She might
at least have given him a hint as to the whereabouts of his room,
since she had left him to himself for a quarter of an hour. She had
not been gone four minutes yet, but Louis made it fifteen, and
fifteen it was to be, in his estimation.
Presently he heard a man's footstep in the library behind him, and
the subdued tinkling of a superior tea-service, of which the sound
differs from the clatter of the hotel tea-tray, as the voice, say, of
Fanny Trehearne differed in refinement from that of an Irish cook.
But it irritated Lawrence, nevertheless, and he did not look round.
He felt that when Fanny came down again, he intended to refuse tea
altogether--presumably, by way of proving that he was not a spoilt
baby after all. He crossed one leg over the other impatiently, and
hesitated as to whether, if he lit a cigarette, it would seem rude to
be smoking when Fanny should come, even though he was really in the
open air on the verandah. But in this, his manners had the better of
his impatience, and after touching his cigarette case in his pocket,
in a longing way, he did not take it out.
At last he heard Fanny enter the room. There was no mistaking her
tread, for he had noticed that she wore tennis shoes. He knew that
she could not see him where he sat, and he turned his head towards
the door expectantly. Again he heard the tinkle of the tea-things.
Then there was silence. Then the urn began to hiss and sing softly,
and there was another sort of tinkling. It was clear that Fanny had
sat down. She could have no idea that he was sitting outside, as he
knew, but he thought she might have taken the trouble to look for
him. He listened intently for the sound of her step again, but it
did not come, and, oddly enough, his heart began to beat more
quickly. But he did not move. He felt a ridiculous determination to
wait until she began to be impatient and to move about and look for
him. He could not have told whether it were timidity, or
nervousness, or ill-temper which kept him nailed to his chair, and
just then he would have scorned the idea that it could be love in any
shape, though his heart was beating so fast.
Suddenly his straining ear caught the soft rustle made by the pages
of a book, turned deliberately and smoothed afterwards. She was
calmly reading, indifferent to his coming or staying away--reading
while the tea was drawing. How stolid she was, he thought. She was
certainly not conscious of the action of her heart as she sat there.
For a few moments longer he did not move. Then he felt he wished to
see her, to see how she was sitting, and how really indifferent she
was. But if he made a sound, she would look up and lay down her book
even before he entered the room. The verandah had a floor of painted
boards,--which are more noisy than unpainted ones, for some occult
reason,--and he could not stir a step without being heard. Besides,
his straw easy-chair would creak when he rose.
All at once he felt how very foolish he was, and he got up noisily,
an angry blush on his young face. He reached the entrance in two
strides and stood in the open doorway, with his back to the light.
As he had guessed, Fanny was reading.
"Oh!" he ejaculated with affected surprise, as he looked at her.
She did not raise her eyes nor start, being evidently intent upon
finishing the sentence she had begun.
"I thought you were never coming," she said, absently.
He was more hurt than ever by her indifference, and sat down at a
little distance, without moving the light chair he had chosen. Fanny
reached the foot of the page, put a letter she held into the place,
closed the book upon it, and then at last looked up.
"Do you like your tea strong or weak?" she enquired in a
business-like tone.
"Just as it comes--I don't care," answered Lawrence, gloomily.
"Then I'll give it to you now. I like mine strong."
"It's bad for the nerves."
"I haven't any nerves," said Fanny Trehearne, with conviction.
"That's curious," observed Lawrence, with fine sarcasm.
Fanny looked at him without smiling, since there was nothing to smile
at, and then poured out his tea. He took it in silence, but helped
himself to more sugar, with a reproachful air.
"Oh--you like it sweet, do you?" said Fanny, interrogatively.
"Peculiarity of spoilt babies," answered Lawrence, in bitter tones.
"Yes, I see it is."
And with this crushing retort Fanny Trehearne relapsed into silence.
Lawrence began to drink his tea, burnt his mouth with courageous
indifference, stirred up the sugar gravely, and said nothing.
"I wonder when they'll get home," said Fanny, after a long interval.
"Are you anxious about them?" enquired the young man, with affected
politeness.
"Anxious? No! I was only wondering."
"I'm not very amusing, I know," said Lawrence, grimly.
"No, you're not."
The blood rushed to his face again with his sudden irritation, and he
drank more hot tea to keep himself in countenance. At that moment he
sincerely wished that he had not come to Bar Harbour at all.
"You're not particularly encouraging, Miss Trehearne," he said
presently. "I'm sure, I'm doing my best to be agreeable."
"And you think that I'm doing my best to be disagreeable? I'm not,
you know. It's your imagination."
"I don't know," answered Lawrence, his face unbending a little. "You
began by telling me that you despised me because I'm such a duffer at
out-of-door things, then you told me I was a spoilt baby, and now
you're proving to me that I'm a bore."
"Duffer, baby, and bore!" Fanny laughed. "What an appalling
combination!"
"It is, indeed. But that's what you said--"
"Oh, nonsense! I wasn't as rude as that, was I? But I never said
anything of the sort, you know."
"You really did say that I was a spoilt baby--"
"No. I told you not to be, by way of a general warning--"
"Well, it's the same thing--"
"Is it? If I tell you not to go out of the room, for instance, and
if you sit still--is it the same thing as though you got up and went
out?"
"Why no--of course not! How absurd!"
"Well, the other is absurd too."
"I'll never say again that women aren't logical," answered Lawrence,
smiling in spite of himself.
"No--don't. Have some more tea."
"Thanks--I've not finished. It's too hot to drink."
Thereupon, his good temper returning, he desisted from self-torture
by scalding, and set the cup down. Fanny watched him, but turned her
eyes away as he looked up and she met his glance.
"I'm so glad you've come," she said quietly. "I've looked forward to
it."
Perhaps she was a little the more ready to say so, because she was
inwardly conscious of having rather wilfully teased him, but she
meant what she said. Lawrence felt his heart beating again in a
moment. Resting his elbow on his knees, he clasped his hands and
looked down at the pattern of the rug under his feet. She did not
realize how easily she could move him, not being by any means a flirt.
"It's nothing to the way I've looked forward to it," he answered.
She was silent, but he did not raise his head. He could see her face
in the carpet.
"You know that, don't you?" he asked, in a low voice, after a few
moments.
Unfortunately for his information on the subject, the butler appeared
just then, announcing a visitor.
"Mr. Brinsley."
It was clear that the manservant had no option in the matter of
admitting the newcomer, who was in the room almost before his name
was pronounced.
"How do you do, Miss Trehearne?" he began as he came swiftly forward.
"I'm tremendously glad to find you at home. You're generally out at
this hour."
"Is that why you chose it?" asked Fanny, with a little laugh and
holding out her hand. "Do you know Mr. Lawrence?" she continued, by
way of introducing the two men. "Mr. Brinsley," she added, for
Louis's benefit.
Lawrence had risen, and he shook hands with a good grace. But he
hated Mr. Brinsley at once, both because the latter had come
inopportunely and because his own sensitive nature was instantly and
strongly repelled by the man.
There was no mistaking Mr. Brinsley's Canadian accent, though he
seemed anxious to make it as English as possible, and Lawrence
disliked Canadians; but that fact alone could not have produced the
strongly disagreeable sensation of which the younger man was at once
conscious, and he looked at the visitor in something like surprise at
the strength of his instantaneous aversion. Brinsley, though dressed
quietly, and with irreproachable correctness, was a showy man, of
medium height, but magnificently made. His wrists were slender,
nervous, and sinewy, his ankles--displayed to advantage by his low
russet shoes--were beautifully modelled, whereas his shoulders were
almost abnormally broad, and the cords and veins moved visibly in his
athletic neck when he spoke or moved. The powerful muscles were
apparent under his thin grey clothes, and Lawrence had noticed the
perfect grace and strength of his quick step when he had entered. In
face he was very dark, and his wiry, short black hair had rusty
reflexions. His skin was tanned to a deep brown, and mottled,
especially about the eyes, with deep shadows, in which were freckles
even darker than the shadows themselves. His beard evidently grew as
high as his cheek bones, for the line from which it was shaved was
cleanly drawn and marked by the dark fringe remaining above. His
mustache was black and heavy, and he wore very small, closely cropped
whiskers like those affected by naval officers. He had one of those
arrogant, vain, astute noses which seem to point at whatever the
small and beady black eyes judge to be worth having.
At a glance, Lawrence saw that Brinsley was an athlete, and he
guessed instantly that the man must be good at all those things which
Louis himself was unable to do. He was a man to ride, drive, run,
pull an oar, and beat everybody at tennis. But neither was that the
reason why Lawrence hated him from the first. It had been the touch
of his hard dry hand, perhaps, or the flash of the light in his small
black eyes, or his self-satisfied and all-conquering expression. It
was not easy to say. Possibly, too, Louis thought that Brinsley was
his rival, and resented the fact that Fanny had betrayed no annoyance
at the interruption.
But Brinsley barely vouchsafed Lawrence a glance, as the latter
thought, and immediately sat himself down much nearer to Miss
Trehearne and the tea-table than Louis, in his previous rage, had
thought fit to do.
"Well, Miss Trehearne," said Brinsley, "how is Tim? Isn't he all
right yet?"
"He's better," answered Fanny. "He had a bad time of it, but you
can't kill a wire-haired terrier, you know. He wouldn't take the
phosphate. I believe it was sweetened, and he hates sugar."
"So do I. Please don't give me any," he added quickly, watching her
as she prepared a cup of tea for him.
Lawrence's resentment began to grow again. It was doubtless because
Mr. Brinsley never took sugar that Fanny had seemed scornfully
surprised at the artist's weakness for it.