There is so much that no one knows,
So much unreached that none suppose.
"I want you to put on a nice dress to-night. I have two friends coming
to dine."
Eve looked up from the book she was reading, and Mrs. Harrington
tempered her curt manner of expressing her wishes with a rare smile.
She often did this for Eve's benefit, almost unconsciously. In some
indefinite way she was rather afraid of this girl.
"I will do my best," answered Eve, her mind only half weaned from the
pages.
She had been ten days in the house, and the somewhat luxurious comfort
of it appealed to a faintly developed love of peace and ease which had
been filtered into her soul with the air of a Southern land. She had
found it easier to get on with Mrs. Harrington than she at first
anticipated. Her nature, which was essentially womanly, had in reality
long craved for the intimate sympathy and intercourse which only
another woman could supply. There was something indolent and restful
in the very atmosphere of the house that supplied a distinct want in
the motherless girl's life. There were a number of vague possibilities
of trouble in the world, half perceived, half divined by Eve; which
possibilities Mrs. Harrington seemed capable of meeting and fending off.
It was all indefinite and misty, but Eve felt at rest, and, as it were,
under protection, in the house of this hard, cold woman of the world.
"It can only be a black one," the girl answered.
"Yes; but people don't know what a black dress is until they have seen
one that has been made in Spain."
Eve did not return at once to her book. She was, in fact, thinking
about her dress--being in no way superior to such matters.
When she came down into the drawing-room, an hour later, she found
awaiting her there the two men about whom she thought most.
Cipriani de Lloseta and Fitz were standing on the hearthrug together.
Mrs. Harrington had not yet come down. They came forward together, the
Count taking her hand first, with his courteous bow. Fitz followed,
shaking hands in silence, with that simplicity which she had learned to
look for and to like in him.
"I wonder," said Eve, "why Mrs. Harrington did not tell me that you
were the two friends she expected to dinner?"
The Count smiled darkly.
"Perhaps our hostess does not know that we have met before--" he began;
and stopped suddenly when the door opened, and the rustle of Mrs.
Harrington's silk dress heralded her coming.
Her quick eyes flashed over them with a comprehensive appreciation of
the situation.
"You all seem to know each other," she said sharply. "I knew that Fitz
had been of some service to you at D'Erraha; but I was not aware that
you knew the Count de Lloseta."
"The Count de Lloseta was very kind to me at Barcelona--on a matter of
business," explained Eve innocently.
Mrs. Harrington turned upon the Spaniard quickly, but nevertheless too
late to catch the warning frown which he had directed towards Eve.
Mrs. Harrington looked keenly into his face, which was blandly
imperturbable.
"Then you are the owner of D'Erraha?"
"I am."
Mrs. Harrington gave a strange little laugh.
"What a rich man you are!" she said. "Come! Let us go to dinner."
She took the Count's arm, and led the way to the dining-room. She was
visibly absent-minded at first, as if pondering over something which
had come as a surprise to her. Then she woke from her reverie, and,
turning to Fitz, said--
"And what do you think of the Baleares?"
"I like them," returned Fitz curtly.
He thought it was bad taste thus to turn the conversation upon a
subject which could only be painful to Eve. He only thought of Eve,
and therefore did not notice the patient endurance of the Count's face.
De Lloseta was taking his soup with a slow concentration of his
attention upon its flavour, as if trying not to hear the conversation.
Mrs. Harrington looked sharply at him, and in doing so failed to
intercept a glance, exchanged by Fitz and Eve across the table.
"Why are you here?" Fitz seemed to be asking.
And Eve reassured him by a little smile.
"There is one advantage in your long exile at Mahon," pursued the
hostess inexorably. "It must have been economical. You could not have
wanted money there."
Fitz laughed.
"Hardly so Arcadian as that," he said.
The Count looked up.
"I suppose," he said, "that the port where one does not want money is
yet to be discovered?"
Mrs. Harrington, sipping her sherry, glanced at the speaker.
"Surely," she said lightly, "you are talking of what you know
absolutely nothing."
"Pardon me"--without looking up.
Mrs. Harrington laughed.
"Ah," she said, "we three know too much about you to believe that. Now,
what can a lone man like you want with money?"
"A lone man may happen to be saddled with a name of--well, of some
repute--an expensive luxury."
"And you think that a great name is worth spending a fortune upon, like
a garden, merely to keep it up?"
"I do."
"You think it worth all that?"
The dark, inscrutable eyes were raised deliberately to her face.
"Assuredly you must know that I do," he said.
Mrs. Harrington laughed, and changed the subject. She knew this man's
face well, and her knowledge told her that he was at the end of his
patience.
"So you saw Luke at Gibraltar?" she said, turning to Fitz.
"Yes, for a short time. I had never seen the Croonah before. She is a
fine ship."
"So I understand. So fine, indeed, that two friends of mine, the
Ingham-Bakers, were induced to go to Malta in her. There is no limit
now to feminine enterprise. Mothers are wonderful, and their daughters
no less so. N'est-ce pas, Senor?"
"All ladies are wonderful!" said the Count, with a grave bow. "They
are as the good God made them."
"I don't agree with you there," snapped Mrs. Harrington. "So you saw
the Ingham-Bakers also, Fitz?"
"Yes; they lunched with us."
"And Agatha was very pleasant, no doubt?"
"Very."
"She always is--to men. The Count admires her greatly. She makes him
do so."
"She has an easy task," put in De Lloseta quietly. It almost seemed
that there was some feeling about Agatha between these two people.
"You know," Mrs. Harrington went on, addressing herself to Fitz, "that
Luke and I have made it up. We are friends now."
Fitz did not answer at once. His face clouded over. Seen thus in
anger, it was almost a hard face, older and somewhat worn. He raised
his eyes, and they as suddenly softened, for Eve's eyes had met them,
and she seemed to understand.
"I am not inclined to discuss Luke," he said quietly.
"My dear, I did not propose doing so," answered Mrs. Harrington, and
her voice was so humble and conciliatory that De Lloseta looked up from
his plate, from one face to the other.
That Mrs. Harrington should accept this reproof thus humbly seemed to
come as a surprise to them all, except Fitz, who went on eating his
dinner with a singular composure.
It would appear that Mrs. Harrington had been put out of temper by some
small incident at the beginning of the dinner, and, like a spoilt
child, proceeded to vent her displeasure on all and sundry. In the same
way she would no doubt have continued, unless spoken sharply to, as
Fitz had spoken.
For now her manner quite changed, and the rest of the meal passed
pleasantly enough. Mrs. Harrington now devoted herself to her guests,
and as carefully avoided dangerous subjects as she had hitherto
appeared to seek them.
After dinner she asked the Count to tune his violin, while she herself
prepared to play his accompaniment.
Fitz lighted the candles and set the music ready with a certain
neatness of hand rarely acquired by landsmen, and then returned to the
smaller drawing-room, where Eve was seated by the fire, needlework in
hand.
He stood for a moment leaning against the mantelpiece. Perhaps he was
waiting for her to speak. Perhaps he did not realise how much there
was in his long, silent gaze.
"How long have you been here?" he asked, when the music began.
"Ten days," she answered, without looking up.
"But you are not going to live here?"--with some misgiving.
"Oh no. I am going to live with my uncle in Suffolk."
He moved away a few steps to pick up a fallen newspaper. Presently he
came back to her, resuming his former position at the corner of the
mantelpiece.
It was Eve who spoke next--smoothing out her silken trifle of
needlework and looking at it critically.
"I never thanked you," she said, "for all your kindness to me at
D'Erraha. You were a friend in need."
It was quite different from what it had been at D'Erraha. Possibly it
was as different as were the atmospheres of the two places. Eve seemed
to have something of London in the reserve of her manner--the easy
insincerity of her speech. She was no longer a girl untainted by
worldliness--sincere, frank, and open.
Fitz was rather taken aback.
"Oh," he answered, "I could not do much. There was really nothing that
I could do except to stand by in case I might be wanted."
Eve took up her needle again.
"But," she said, "that is already something. It is often a great
comfort, especially to women, to know that there is some one 'standing
by,' as you call it, in case they are wanted."
She gave a little laugh, and then suddenly became quite grave. The
recollection of a conversation they had had at D'Erraha had flashed
across her memory, as recollections do--at the wrong time. The
conversation she remembered was recorded at the time--it was almost
word for word with this, but quite different.
Fitz was looking at her with his impenetrable simplicity.
"Will you oblige me," he said, "by continuing to look upon me in that
light?"
She had bent her head rather far over her work as he spoke, and as he
said the last five words her breath seemed to come with a little catch,
as if she had pricked her finger.
The musicians were just finishing a brilliant performance, and before
answering Fitz she looked round into the other room, nodded, smiled,
and thanked them. Then she turned to him, still speaking in the light
and rather indifferent tone which was so new to him, and said--
"Thank you very much, but of course I have my uncle. How--how long
will you be--staying on shore? You deserve a long leave, do you not?"
"Yes, I suppose I do," said Fitz absently. He had evidently listened
more to the voice than the words. He forgot to answer the question.
But she repeated it.
"How long do you get?" she asked, hopelessly conversational.
"About three weeks."
"Is that all? Ah! here is tea. I wonder whether I ought to offer to
pour it out!"
But Mrs. Harrington left the piano, and said that her sight was failing
her. She had had enough music.
During the rest of the evening Fitz took one or two opportunities of
looking at Eve to discover, if he could, what the difference was that
he found in her. He had left a girl in Majorca--he found a woman in
London. That was the whole difference; but he did not succeed in
reducing it to so many words. He had passed most of his life at sea
among men. He had not, therefore, had much opportunity of acquiring
that doubtful knowledge--the knowledge of women--the only item, by the
way, which men will never include among the sciences of existence.
Already they know more about the stars than they do about women. Even
if Fitz had possessed this knowledge he would not have turned it to
account. The wisest fail to do that. We only make use of our knowledge
of women in the study of those women with whom other men have to do.
"Fitz has grown rather dull and stupid," said Mrs. Harrington, when the
two guests had taken their leave.
Eve was folding up her work, and did not answer.
"Was he like that in Mallorca?" continued the grey lady.
"Oh--I think so. He was very quiet always."