THE SECOND RETURN TO VAIL
It was the day following Lady Oxted's return to London from the Sunday
in the country that she received the expected letter from Mrs. Aylwin,
in answer to her own. The opening of it, it would be idle to deny, was
made with an anxious and apprehensive hand. Already it was plain to her
with how swift and strong a movement, as of flood water hastening toward
sluice-gates, the first attraction between the two was speeding into
intimacy; and had she known what had passed between them in the orchard,
she would have guessed that its swiftness had outrun her eye. Already it
would have been far better that, if the girl was to know the name her
mother had refused to tell her, she should have known it on the night of
her arrival. But these things were past prayer, and Lady Oxted drew the
sheet of paper from its envelope and found, at any rate, that the
communication was short.
"I leave it entirely to your judgment," wrote Mrs. Aylwin, "whether you
tell Evie or not. You say that you have promised not to: in that case,
supposing at some future time you consider it advisable, and you can
accept this quibble, tell it her not in your name, but in mine. My
reason for not telling it her you may easily have guessed: the
knowledge, or so I thought it, that Harold was murdered, has poisoned my
life, and now I question myself as to whether I have been certainly
right about it. But remember this: if there arises between the two--the
thing is possible, as evidently you foresee--a friendship which
develops, as is natural between a man and a maid, it is certain that
some time Evie will know. I leave it to you to decide whether it is
better that she should know now or later. I thank you, dear Violet, for
your care for her."
"Dear Violet" heaved a sigh of relief. Mrs. Aylwin had been known to
stagger those who were dear to her by sending them letters which partook
of the nature of an ultimatum. But there was no ultimatum here; she was
willing to treat, and this letter, though couched with the precision of
an official despatch, was not without amenity.
She hurried downstairs to join Evie, for they were going out to lunch,
with the sense of a burden removed. Such being the attitude of Mrs.
Aylwin, she determined that her own promise to the girl should certainly
stand; and she thought, with scornful wonder of her husband's diagnosis,
that at the very back of her mind she would reserve to herself the right
to break it. Men's idea of women, she told herself, was incredibly crude
and elementary. They reserved for themselves a monopoly of certain
qualities, like courage, justice, and honour, and simply took it for
granted that such things did not exist for women. Poor, dear Bob, and
after so many years, too!
Evie was somewhat silent as they drove down Bond Street, and though her
gaze at the jostling crowds was not less intent than usual, it seemed to
have lost the sparkle of its avidity, and to dwell rather than alight
and be gone again. She looked this morning at the seedy toy sellers and
flower vendors more than at their fragrant or painted wares, and,
instead of finding fascination in the little tin figures that moved
their scythes over the surface of an absolutely smooth pavement, with
the industry of those who reap the whirlwind, or commenting on the
phenomenal cheapness of collar studs, it was rather the tragic meanness
of their exhibitors which to-day attracted her.
"How do you suppose they live, Aunt Violet?" she asked. "Look at that
man with studs: six a penny. I know, because I bought six on Saturday.
Well, supposing he sold sixty a day, which I imagine he does not, and
that they cost him absolutely nothing, in the evening he would have
tenpence. Yet they are not beggars; they work for their bread. Now, in
Italy, we have nothing like them; their place is taken by the smiling,
picturesque _lazzaroni_, who would not stir a finger to help themselves.
They just sit in the sun and smile, and get fed. Oh, dear!"
"What is it now, Evie?" asked Lady Oxted.
"Nothing. I suppose I am just realizing that it takes all sorts to make
a world, and that extremes meet, and so on. Look at me now: here am I
in this comfortable victoria, much more like the _lazzaroni_ than the
toy sellers, and who shall say how far the toy sellers are above the
_lazzaroni_? I sit in the sun, and if there is no sun I sit by the fire,
and, to do me justice, I generally smile. Yet, supposing I had to work
for my bread, should I do it cheerfully, do you think? Should I maintain
even a low average of industry? Supposing there came some great call on
me for courage or resolution, should I respond to it? I have no reason
whatever for assuring you, or myself either, that I should."
Lady Oxted's mind flew back with an inward smirk of satisfaction to her
own heroic determination to keep the promise she had made to Evie.
"Probably you would," she said. "Probably we are not so bad, when it
comes to--when we have an opportunity for behaving abominably, as we
thought we were going to be. The thought of the dentist poisons my life
for days beforehand, yet I go all the same, and ring the dreary bell,
and behave, I believe, with average courage under the wheel. Morally,
too, I suspect, we are better when a thing has to be done than we were
afraid we were going to be. Also, on the whole, one is more honourable
than one thinks--more honourable certainly," she added, with a sudden,
irrepressible spurt of indignation against her husband--"than those who
know us best believe us to be."
Evie laughed.
"Dear aunt, have you been very honourable lately?" she asked. "Or has
Uncle Bob been doubting your fine qualities?"
"Cynicism always ends in disappointment," remarked Lady Oxted, leaping a
conversational chasm, "but since it is cynical, I suppose it expects
it."
"Is Uncle Bob a cynic?" asked Evie, dragging her back over the chasm
again.
"Well, I made a promise the other day," said Lady Oxted, "and asked him
his advice about it. He told me that I should probably reserve to myself
the right to break it." Evie sat up suddenly, and toy makers and
_lazzaroni_ were swept from her mind.
"A promise?" she said. "Not the promise you made me?"
Lady Oxted looked up in surprise.
"Yes, the same. Why, dear?"
Evie deliberated with herself for a moment.
"For this reason," she said slowly: "because I now know what I asked you
not to tell me. Your promise has had the kernel taken out of it."
"You know? Who told you?"
"Lord Vail," she replied.
Lady Oxted looked at the girl's heightened colour, wondering what
emotion flew that beautiful standard there.
"I will never waste a dram of resolution again in determining to abide
by my word," she announced.
Evie laughed again, with a great ring of happiness in the note.
"Then you will confirm Uncle Bob in his cynicism," she replied, "and
disappoint him of all his pleasant little disappointments."
It was not long before Lady Oxted found that to be chaperon to a very
considerable heiress could not be regarded, even by the most negligent,
as a sinecure, while to fulfil its duties at all adequately cost a vast
deal of time and thought. Had the girl been dull, heavy, serious, or
plain, her task would have been lighter; but as it was, Lady Oxted
became, before a fortnight was past, a really hard-worked woman. Evie's
appetite for gaiety was insatiable; she took to London like a bird to
the air; found everybody charming, and everybody returned the
compliment. Indeed, the girl seemed to bring, wherever she went, a
breath of spring and morning, so utterly sincere and spontaneous was the
pleasure that bubbled from her; and, since nothing pleases people so
much as to find themselves pleasing, London in general was exceedingly
glad that Santa Margarita was the poorer for Evie's presence here. With
the eager avidity of youth, and with youth's serene digestion, she
gathered and devoured the heaped-up feast of daily and nightly gaiety.
Self-consciousness for once seemed to have been left out of the
composition of a human being, and she played, and laughed, and enjoyed
herself among these crowds as a child may play with daisies by itself in
some spring meadow, not brooding and reflecting on its happiness, but
simply happy. Parsifal with the flower maidens was not more
unreflective than she, surrounded by the well-dressed hosts, her charm
in the mouths of all.
It might have been hoped, thought Lady Oxted, that since so large a ring
was always assembled to see her smile, the smiles would have been,
considering the number and variety of the circle, distributed with
moderate evenness. In this she was not disappointed, but a thing far
more disconcerting to the responsible chaperon. Evie's seriousness
certainly was not impartial. For all the world but one she seemed to
have no seriousness, but about that one there could be no mistake. For
already, between her and Harry, there existed a relation, clear and
indefinable, to be dwelt on with silent wonder. Some alchemy, secret and
subtle, untraceable as the curves of the swallow's flight, was at work;
an effervescence already had begun to stir, brightening the dark well of
destiny within them by a hundred points of light; a mysterious
luminosity was growing in tremulous flame.
Until the receipt of Mrs. Aylwin's letter, Lady Oxted had felt a little
uncertain as to whether she could accept Harry's invitation for herself
and the girl to Vail. In any case the next two Sundays were impossible,
and the matter had been left undecided. But now that all restriction was
withdrawn, she arranged to take Evie down in three weeks' time, at the
end of the month. Harry himself, however, had business at his home which
could not be postponed, and toward the end of the week he went down
there with the intention of clearing it off as quickly as might be, and
returning again to London.
Mr. Francis had been at Vail almost continuously since the winter, and
Harry found him in the enjoyment of his usual merry spirits. He looked
even better in health and younger to the eye than when his nephew had
seen him last, and the briskness of his movements, the clear, scarcely
wrinkled skin of his face, were indeed surprising in one of his years.
He had driven to the station to meet Harry, and the train being stopped
on an inside curve just before reaching the platform, the lad, leaning
out of the window, saw him standing there. Mr. Francis caught sight of
the face, and pulling out his handkerchief continued to wave it till the
train finally drew up at the platform.
"And how are you, my dearest boy?" he cried effusively, before Harry was
out of the carriage. "How late your train is! It is scandalous and
abominable! I should have found two sharp words for the station-master,
I suspect, if I had not been so happy to think you were coming. How well
you look, Harry! London seems to suit you as much as the country suits
me."
"Indeed, that is saying a great deal," said Harry, looking at that
cheerful, healthy face. "I have never seen you looking better, Uncle
Francis."
A smile of great tenderness played round the old man's mouth.
"And for that I have to thank you, my dear boy," he said, "in that it is
to you I owe my quiet retreat, my days of busy tranquility. Ah, Harry,
it has been worth while to grow old, if at the end you find such peace
as is mine."
They drove briskly up the mile of deep country lane which separated the
station from the high road, and Harry found an unlooked-for pleasure in
the wreaths of honeysuckle which embowered the hedge in their fragrant
curves, and in the clean, vigorous tendrils of the dog-rose starred with
the delicacy of its pink blossom. Something in that young unfolding of
simple loveliness, which had never really struck him before, now smote
on his heart with a pang of exquisite pleasure. How wonderful was youth
and the growth of young things; how like, in some subtle and intimate
way, were the springing sprigs of blossoms to a girl on the verge of
womanhood! For instance--and he turned to his uncle again.
"Yes, London suits me," he said, the thrill and surprise of his thoughts
glowing in his handsome face. "People are so kind, so friendly! Oh, it
is a warm, nice world!" and his hand shook the two horses to a swifter
trot.
"You will always find people kind and friendly to you, Harry," said Mr.
Francis, "if you look at them as you looked at me just now. Men and
women know nothing so attractive as happiness. My dear boy, what have
you been doing to yourself? You are more radiant than Apollo!"
Harry laughed.
"I would not change places with him," he said; "I will take my chance as
Harry Vail. I have done nothing to myself, if you ask, but I have found
many friends. But I do not forget, Uncle Francis, that the first friend
I found was you, and I do not think I shall find a better."
They turned into the blare of the white high road, and Mr. Francis, who,
while they were in the shadow of the deep lane banks, had carried his
hat on his knee, letting the wind blow refreshingly through his thick
white hair, put it on again.
"Ah, Harry, I hope you will some time, and soon, find a friend, and
dearer than a friend, for life," he said, "who will speedily make you
forget your old uncle. But give him a seat in the chimney corner, that
he asks, though he asks no more, and let him nurse your children on his
knee. He has a way with children; they never cry with him. I pray, I
often pray," he said, lifting his hat as he spoke, with a gesture
touching and solemn, "that I may do that. That, dear Harry, would be the
crowning happiness of many happy days."
The words died gently on the air; no direct reply was needed. For a
moment Harry was half determined to tell his uncle of his dream and his
hope--longing, with the generous warmth of youth, for the sympathy which
he knew would so fully be his; and the words were even on the threshold
of his lips, when Mr. Francis suddenly straightened himself from his
attitude of musing and plunged into less intimate talk.
"I have not been idle, dear Harry," he said, "while you have been away,
charging about the world, as youth should. I think you will find--I may
say it without undue complacence--that the home farm is in better order
and is more profitable than it has ever been. There is no credit due to
me; it is simply the work of a bailiff I had the luck to find an
invaluable man; and in the autumn I can promise you better
pheasant-shooting than there has been for many years."
"I am sure it is so," said Harry, "and we will prove it together, Uncle
Francis. Really I can not thank you enough; it is too good of you to
devote yourself as you have been doing to the estate. Dear me, it is
four months since I was here! I am an absentee landlord, but a better
landlord than I has been on the spot, and I am not afraid that I shall
be shot at."
They turned in at the lodge gates and bowled swiftly along under the
huge trees. The hay was standing high in the fields to the left; on the
right the pasturage of the park was grazed by sleek kine, already
beginning to leave the midday shadows of the trees for their evening
feed in the cool; and the senses of smell and sight alike drank deep of
the plentiful and luxuriant summer. Rooks held parliament in their
debating houses in the high elms, round the coops of the
pheasant-rearing hens cheeped innumerable young birds, and the breeze
that should blow at sundown was already stirring to try its wings.
Extraordinarily pleasant to Harry was the sense that all this was his,
yet there was neither vainglory nor selfishness in his delight, for he
valued his own not for the thought of what it was to him, but for the
joy another, perhaps, should take in it. Then, emerging from the
mile-long avenue, they came to the shining lake, and the sound of
coolness from the splashing sluice. Swans and water lily repeated
themselves on the surface, and, as they turned the corner, a moor-hen
made its water-legged scurry to the cover of the reed beds. Then, with a
hollow note from the wheels, they rolled over the bridge and turned in
under the monstrous shapes of the cut-box hedge to the gravel sweep in
front of the house. There it stood, the shadow of one of the wings
fallen half across the courtyard, stately and grave, full of dignity and
grave repose, surely no unworthy gift to offer to any. And at that
thought a sudden pulse leaped within him.
"It is all unworthy," Harry said to himself, banishing with an effort
that irrepressible thrill of joy, "and I the unworthiest of all."
He lingered a moment at the door, and then followed Mr. Francis into the
house. Again the joy of possession seized him: his were the tall, faint
tapestries of armoured knights and garlanded lovers, his the rows of
serious portraits which seemed to-day to his eye to have a freshness and
welcome for him which had never been there before. He contrasted, with
keen relish of the change, his last home-coming and this. What a
curious, dreamlike month that had been which he had spent here at his
coming-of-age. How gray and colourless life seemed then if looked at in
the light of all that had passed since! He had pictured himself, he
remembered, slowly putting spadeful after spadeful of time, heaped
gradually from month to year, on the grave of his youth, spending a
quiet, often solitary existence here in the house of his fathers. Uncle
Francis--so he had planned it in those days when he had been alone here,
before his arrival and Geoffrey's--no doubt would be glad to come here
sometimes; Geoffrey, too, would very likely spend a week with him now
and again in the shooting season. Otherwise, it would be natural for him
to be much alone, and the prospect had called up in him no emotion even
so lively as dislike. He would be out of doors a good deal, pottering
and poking about the woods; he would read a good deal, and no doubt the
years would slip away not unpleasantly. In course of time the portrait
of Henry Vail, twelfth baron, and of seemingly morose tendencies, would
gloom from the wall, for that series must not be broken; a little
longer, and moss would be green in the lettering of his tombstone.
But now he could scarcely believe that the lad who had meditated thus
six months ago, not dismally but without joy, could be the same as he
who stood with a kindled eye beneath old Francis's picture. He looked at
his own hand as he raised his teacup, he looked at his boots and his
trousers. Yes, they were certainly his, and he it had been who had drunk
tea here before. What then had happened, he asked himself? He had
discovered the world, that was all; and Columbus had only discovered
America. And the world was quite full of charming things and people in
particular; to descend to details, or to generalize on the whole, he
hardly knew which was which; it was full of one person.