THE VERNONS--PARTICULARLY FRANCES
Dorothy had never seen a prospect which pleased her better. There was
grass beneath her feet--the exquisite grass which one seems to find
only on an English lawn--thick and soft and springy, of such a restful
green. There was croquet on one side; two tennis courts were beyond;
with a well-shorn piece of grass, with big numbers on it, whose use
she did not understand, which was really a clock for putting at golf;
flowers were in beds and borders, on banks, and everywhere; there were
great trees and smaller ones, shrubs and clustered bushes; behind was
the long, low, old house, with its rose and creeper covered walls; in
front was the river, sparkling, laughing in the sunshine, already
alive with a greater variety of small pleasure craft than she had ever
heard of. She had read of such places in English books at the convent;
but she had scarcely even hoped ever to see one. Yet, here she was,
transported, as if by the touch of a magician's wand, into what seemed
to her to be a more perfect paradise than any of those she had read
of, which she had been told she might regard, at least for some little
time to come, almost as if it were her own home. After fourteen years
spent within one set of walls, where nothing ever happened, events had
crowded on her, all at once, so quickly; she had been so passed, as it
were, from hand to hand; so hurried from scene to scene, that it was
not strange if this final transformation almost seemed to her as if it
were part and parcel of some long-continued dream, and that as she
stood there, inhaling the pleasant air, the smell of the flowers, the
sunshine, the indescribable aroma of the whole delightful scene, she
was conscious, amid all the charm and sweetness, of a sense of
shivering fear, lest this, the only pleasant phase of that drawn-out
dream, should pass, as the rest of it had done, and its terror should
return.
It was in an effort to escape this haunting fear that she moved
quickly down to the river's brink. There was a sloping bank at the
foot of the lawn; the stream ran just beneath; the grass growing
almost down to the water's edge--there was nothing whatever to prevent
your stepping from the bank into the river if you felt disposed. She
stood on the slope to take in new aspects of what seemed to her to be
the ever-changing scene. How nice some of the boats looked--and how
pretty were some of their occupants--and what pretty clothes they
wore! Dorothy was wearing the frock and the hat which Mr Frazer had
brought with him in the parcel from Newcaster; yesterday they had
seemed to her to be in the height of fashion--and compared to the
garments which she discarded for them they were. Now she felt how out
of harmony they were with her surroundings. The frock was of dark blue
serge, the hat of dark grey felt; both good in their way--she did not
doubt that they had cost more money than any two garments of hers had
ever done before. But then the men in the boats were all in white
flannels, and the girls and women in gossamer fabrics of the airiest
kind, with hats which were radiant visions. They were in accord with
the spirit of the scene. The longer Dorothy stood to watch the
stronger her conviction grew that she was not. As far as appearance
went she was nothing but a blot on the landscape. Ashamed though she
was of such a feeling it was there, and would not away. She knew, none
better, how indebted she was to the generosity of a stranger for being
able to look as well as she did. She called herself a little pig for
wishing that her clothes went better with that fairylike garden, those
radiant skies, the silver stream; were more in the vein of poetry
which marked the costume of the girl in the boat with the two men, an
old and a young one, which was crossing from the opposite bank towards
the lawn on which she stood. She was a study in the palest of pale
blues; Dorothy thought what a charming bit of colour she made, in the
smart boat; in which the two oarsmen, of such contrasting ages, were
evidently so much at home. What a good-looking pair they were, in
their different styles! The fact became plainer as the boat drew near;
the one with the silvery hair and moustache, the other with the light
brown curls, and smooth cheeks on which was the glow of youth and
health.
It had just dawned on Dorothy that the boat was being steered, by the
vision in blue, towards the spot on which she was standing; when, on a
sudden, the young lady in question, rising in her seat, began to
exclaim aloud, in a state of unmistakable agitation:
"Why, if it isn't Dorothy Gilbert! Dorothy Gilbert, where have you
come from?"
The white-haired gentleman seemed to find in the steerswoman's conduct
cause of complaint.
"If," he observed, in quite audible tones, "you do want to have us
over, would you mind letting us have a little notice of what to
expect?"
The expression of this seemingly reasonable wish the young lady
treated with scorn.
"Don't be silly, dad! What does it matter? Especially when there's
Dorothy Gilbert actually standing on our lawn! Dorothy Gilbert, where
have you tumbled from?"
"Excuse me, sir, if we've taken much paint off your boat; but if
you'll kindly have it put right, and will send the bill to my
daughter, who's at present suffering from one of her periodical
attacks, I've no doubt she'll be glad to see it settled--she's
supposed to be steering us, and this is the way she does it."
"Dad!--how can you?" The young lady had all at once discovered, to her
confusion, that these remarks were addressed to two young men who were
in a skiff with which their own craft had nearly come into collision.
"If you or Jim will row I'll take you in." Presently the boat was
brought along to some steps which Dorothy had not previously noticed,
but which she now saw led to the lawn. The young man stepped ashore,
with the painter in his hand; and was followed by the young lady, who
sprang up the steps, two at a time, and rushed to where Dorothy was
standing, exclaiming as she went: "Dorothy! Dorothy! my darling child,
have you tumbled from the skies?"
And, almost before she knew it, Dorothy found herself in the arms, and
submitting to the caresses, of the vision in blue.
"Why," she said, when at last she had a chance to speak, "do you know,
I didn't know you; you look so different."
"Different from what?"
"Different--from what you looked at the convent."
"The convent? My dear!--I should hope I do! How we all looked at that
silly old convent! But, tell me, how do I look?--really?--that
miserable Jim just said I looked a perfect fright."
"I was just thinking how lovely that girl in the boat did look;
and--she turned out to be you."
"My dear, you're an angel! I always was fond of you, but if you keep
on saying darling things to me like that----! What's become of your
guardian? Where is Mr Emmett?"
"I--" Dorothy was about to say, "I left him behind in Newcaster"; but
she changed the form of her sentence to--"I haven't brought him with
me."
"Brought him with you! I should think you hadn't! The idea of
bringing him! The great thing is, you've brought yourself. Honestly,
I'd sooner see you than that the Fates should buy a motor car; and if
you knew how set I am on that--you mayn't believe it, but we only go
driving about behind frumpy old horses--you'd understand how glad
I am--especially to-day. My dear, to-day's our regatta, and our
garden-party--it's our day of days! You couldn't have dropped on us at
a better time; you little schemer, I believe you planned it! Father,
if you will kindly come here I will present you to my friend, Miss
Dorothy Gilbert, of whom, in my moments of emotion, you have heard me
speak. Dorothy, this is my father; a more desirable parent you could
not ask for; though I regret to say that he treats his daughter with a
lack of respect which I fear is one of the signs of the day. Fathers
did not treat their daughters like that when I was young."
"No, Miss Gilbert, nor when I was young either; in those days
daughters stood in awe of their fathers--but we've changed all that. I
trust you know my daughter sufficiently well to be aware that she has
her moments of sanity."
"Dad!--you shouldn't speak like that!--the child will misunderstand
you. Fortunately Dorothy does know me. James!--Jim!--when you've
finished trying to tie that boat up might I ask you to step this way?
Dorothy, this is Mr James Harold Arbuthnot Vernon, better known as
Jim--he is my brother; which is the only complimentary thing I can say
of him. Jim, I believe you can be almost nice if you try very hard--do
try your very hardest to be nice to Miss Gilbert."
"Miss Gilbert, I assure you I can be very nice to you, as this little
object puts it, without trying in the least; in fact, I don't believe
I could be anything else."
"Jim! Dorothy, did you ever hear anything like him? Please try to bear
with him, for a time, for my sake."
The father of the pair managed to get in a word.
"I trust, Miss Gilbert, that this is not a flying visit you are paying
us, but that you have come to stay some time."
Dorothy's was a stammering answer.
"I--I hardly know; my--my movements are uncertain."
Miss Vernon echoed her last word.
"Uncertain!--but, my dear child, what I'm dying to know is what
favouring wind of providence it was which blew you here. When did you
come?"
"Last night."
"Last night!--at what ever time?"
"It was very late."
"It must have been. You see that houseboat by the paddock
there?--that's ours; sometimes some of us sleep in it, and sometimes
none of us do--last night we three did--but we never started till
quite late, and you weren't here then. Why ever didn't you let me know
that you were coming? I'd never have gone to that silly old houseboat
if I had."
"I didn't know that I was coming till--till I'd almost come."
"My dear child!--what do you mean? You must have made up your mind in
a hurry, or--did your guardian make it up for you? Did Mr Emmett bring
you?"
"No; I came with Mr Frazer."
"Mr who?--Frazer?--and who's Mr Frazer?"
"He says he knows you--and your mother seems to know him very well."
"Says he knows me!--and mother knows him very well?--what Frazer can
it be? I know no Mr Frazer."
Her brother offered a suggestion.
"Perhaps he's one of Billy Frazer's lot--Miss Gilbert, do you know
Billy Frazer? He's up at Magdalen; stroked their boats in the torpids;
Bones they call him because--well, because he's bony. Perhaps your
man's a relative of his."
"I don't know; I don't know any of his relations--his name is Eric."
Miss Vernon turned to her father.
"Dad, who is Mr Eric Frazer?"
"I daresay, if you put Miss Gilbert on the witness-stand, and bombard
her long enough, you may get from her the information you require;
though in my time it was not supposed to be the thing to cross-examine
one's guest the moment one met her--however, we have also changed all
that. I am going into the house to speak to your mother. I am very
glad to see you, Miss Gilbert; I don't care how you came, or with
whom; I am only sorry that I was not here to welcome you. I trust now
you have come you'll keep on staying."
The old gentleman moved towards the house; with a figure as erect as
if nothing had ever happened to bow his head or bend his back. His
daughter looked after him with smiling eyes; then turned to the
visitor with a question which took the girl rather aback.
"Well, Dorothy, what do you think of my father?"
"Frances!--what a thing to ask me!--when I've seen him for scarcely
five minutes!"
"Well?--isn't that long enough to enable you to form an opinion? I've
summed up most people inside two seconds."
"Yes--all wrong. Frances, you are an idiot; I never did know anyone
talk quite such drivel as you do."
"Thank you, James; I am obliged to you. Would you mind going away to
play? I have something which I wish to say to my friend, Miss Gilbert,
which I would rather not have overheard by boys. And please remember
how easily a bad impression is formed--don't let Miss Gilbert find out
your true character in the first two minutes."
"All right, ducky; don't you worry. I give you my word I've no wish to
listen to the sort of stuff I know you are fond of talking. Miss
Gilbert, you have my sympathy."
The young gentleman strolled off, his hands in his pockets, whistling
a popular air. Miss Vernon regarded his back with the same smiling
eyes with which she had followed her father; and put almost the same
question to her friend.
"Dorothy, what do you think of Jim?"
"Frances!--how can you?--when you know very well that I think
nothing."
"You are quite right, my dear; I am glad you show such penetration.
All the same, you can't deny that he is good-looking."
"Is he? I didn't notice."
"You didn't notice! Child!--you're not in the convent now."
"No; sometimes I wish I were."
"That's a flattering thing to say!--considering where you are!--and
that I am here!"
"Frances! I didn't mean that! You don't understand."
"You are wrong; I do. I've a feeling that there's something mysterious
about you, about your presence here; and, Dorothy Gilbert, if there's
anything I do love, it's mystery. I suppose it's too much to hope that
it's one of those frightful mysteries, of which one only speaks with
bated breath--that sort of blood-curdler never crosses my path. But,
whatever it may be, I foresee a perfectly delightful time ahead, while
I am engaged in wriggling out from you the secret. However insinuating
I may be, baffle my curiosity; and for goodness sake don't let it
burst on me too soon. Let it dawn on me by degrees; in instalments, my
dear; and let me have a shock with each instalment; each one greater
than the last; so that the full comprehension of the mystery comes
with a culminating shock which turns my hair almost grey--almost, my
pet, not quite, if you please. I've heard that grey hair suits some
girls; but I don't believe I'm one of them. By the way of beginning my
insinuating, let me remark that you have changed since I saw you."
"So have you--and you must have changed more than I have, because I
didn't know you, and you did know me."
"That's true. Now, Dorothy, no flummery, and no fibs--in what respect
do you consider I have altered?"
"Well--for one thing you seem to be so much more of a woman."
"Do I? Isn't that natural?"
"I don't know; it isn't so very long since I saw you last."
"A great many things may happen in a very short time."
"That's true."
Dorothy sighed; but Miss Vernon was smiling. Then she said, with an
air which would be grave, but was not:
"There are women and women. I have heard people say that when one
becomes a woman one should show a consciousness of the responsibilities
of womanhood. I hope I don't show too much of that kind of thing."
"I don't think you ever will do that."
"Sha'n't I? You never can tell. A man I danced with last week--he was
quite old, over thirty--said that it bursts upon you all at once, what
it means to be a woman. I don't know what he knows about it, as he's
only a man; but I've noticed that some men, when they're old, do seem
to know a good deal about women--or they pretend to. What do you think
of this dress?"
"It's a perfect dream!"
"Really?"
"I never saw anything so lovely."
"I fancy it is rather--too-too; and I believe that's what Jim thinks;
that's why he keeps calling me a perfect fright. Oh, those brothers!
they have such ways of paying a compliment. What do you think of the
hat?"
Again Dorothy sighed; but this time it was a sigh of admiration.
"Frances, it's simply sweet!"
"Notice the hair?"
"Rather; and I believe it's the hair which is more responsible for the
change which I see in you than anything else. Of course the clothes
have something to do with it--you didn't wear frocks and hats like
that in the convent."
"My dear! what are you talking about? Fancy the sensation I'd have
made! Can't you see the Mother's face?"
"No; and I'd rather not, thank you. But it's the hair which has
changed you more than the clothes. I can't think how it's done. I
wonder----"
Dorothy stopped; the other finished the sentence for her.
"If I will do yours for you? Come into the house, and then I'll show
you. I've discovered I've quite a genius for dressing hair. I'll make
a perfect picture of you--you won't know yourself when I've finished.
Which room have you got? You don't know? You think that's the window?
That's the pink room--we call it the pink room because once upon a
time its decorations were pink; and we still call it the pink room,
though now they're what I call a symphony in chaste French-grey. Talk
about this frock! You wait till you see me this afternoon! I say, you
were lucky to drop on us on our day of days! There'll be tons of
people here; and, among them, one or two nice ones. Honestly, did you
know what day it was?"
"Of course I didn't; and, if you don't mind, I'd--I'd just as soon
stay in the house while all those people are here. I--I don't feel in
a mood for that kind of thing."
"What kind of thing? Stuff! You don't know what you're talking about;
shyness is what's the matter with you; and that's a complaint of which
little convent-bred girls have got to be cured. Wait till I've tried
my hand upon your hair! Come along, I'll start on it at once. Why,"
she had taken Dorothy's hand in her own, "I say!--whatever's this?--a
ring!--on her engagement finger!--diamonds!--and such a beauty!
Dorothy, what is the matter with the child? She's staring at her own
finger as if she were staring at a ghost!"
Dorothy was staring at Mr Emmett's ring, which gleamed at her on the
third finger of her left hand. Until that moment she had been
unconscious of its presence--a fact which was a sufficient commentary
on her mental state during the last several hours. She could not think
how it had got there; to her it was something worse than a ghost; it
brought back to her, on the instant, all that she would have been so
willing to forget.