THE NAME OF DURWARD
The Durwards received the news of their son's engagement to Sara with
unfeigned delight. Geoffrey was bluffly gratified at the materialization
of his private hopes, and Elisabeth had never appeared more captivating
than during the few days that immediately followed. She went about as
softly radiant and content as a pleased child, and even the strange,
watchful reticence that dwelt habitually in her eyes was temporarily
submerged by the shining happiness that welled up within them.
She urged that an early date should be fixed for the wedding, and Sara,
with a dreary feeling that nothing really mattered very much, listlessly
acquiesced. Driven by conflicting influences she had burned her boats,
and the sooner all signs of the conflagration were obliterated the
better.
But she opposed a quiet negative to the further suggestion that she
should accompany the Durwards to Barrow Court instead of returning to
Monkshaven.
“No, I can't do that,” she said with decision. “I promised Doctor Dick I
would go back.”
Elisabeth smiled airily. Apparently she had no scruples about the
keeping of promises.
“That's easily arranged,” she affirmed. “I'll write to your precious
doctor man and tell him that we can't spare you.”
As far as personal inclination was concerned, Sara would gladly have
adopted Elisabeth's suggestion. She shrank inexpressibly from returning
to Monkshaven, shrouded, as it was, in brief but poignant memories, but
she had given Selwyn her word that she would go back, and, even in
a comparatively unimportant matter such as this appeared, she had a
predilection in favour of abiding by a promise.
Elisabeth demurred.
“You're putting Dr. Selwyn before us,” she declared, candidly amazed.
“I promised him first,” replied Sara. “In my position, you'd do the
same.”
Elisabeth shook her head.
“I shouldn't,” she replied with energy. “The people I love come
first--all the rest nowhere.”
“Then I'm glad I'm one of the people you love,” retorted Sara, laughing.
“And, let me tell you, I think you're a most unmoral person.”
Elisabeth looked at her reflectively.
“Perhaps I am,” she acknowledged. “At least, from a conventional point
of view. Certainly I shouldn't let any so-called moral scruples spoil
the happiness of any one I cared about. However, I suppose you
would, and so we're all to be offered up on the altar of this
twopenny-halfpenny promise you've made to Dr. Selwyn?”
Sara laughed and kissed her.
“I'm afraid you are,” she said.
If anything could have reconciled her to the sacrifice of inclination
she had made in returning to Monkshaven, it would have been the warmth
of the welcome extended to her on her arrival. Selwyn and Molly met her
at the station, and Jane Crab, resplendent in a new cap and apron donned
for the occasion, was at the gate when at last the pony brought the
governess-cart to a standstill outside. Even Mrs. Selwyn had exerted
herself to come downstairs, and was waiting in the hall to greet the
wanderer back.
“It will be a great comfort to have you back, my dear,” she said with
unwonted feeling in her voice, and quite suddenly Sara felt abundantly
rewarded for the many weary hours upstairs, trying to win Mrs. Selwyn's
interest to anything exterior to herself.
“You're looking thinner,” was Selwyn's blunt comment, as Sara threw off
her hat and coat. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
She flushed a little.
“Oh, racketing about, I suppose. I've been living in a perfect whirl.
Never mind, Doctor Dick, you shall fatten me up now with your good
country food and your good country air. Good gracious!”--as he closed
a big thumb and finger around her slender wrist and shook his head
disparagingly--“Don't look so solemn! I was always one of the lean kine,
you know.”
“I don't think that London has agreed with you,” rumbled Selwyn
discontentedly. “Your pulse is as jerky as a primitive cinema film.
You'd better not be in such a hurry to run away from us again. Besides,
we can't do without you, my dear.”
With a mental jolt Sara recollected the fact of her approaching
marriage. How on earth should she break it to these good friends of
hers, who counted so much on her remaining with them, that within three
months--the longest period Elisabeth would consent to wait--she would
be leaving them permanently? It was manifestly impossible to pour such
a douche of cold water into the midst of the joyful warmth of their
welcome; and she decided to wait, at least until the next day, before
acquainting them with the fact of her engagement.
When morning came, the same arguments held good in favour of a further
postponement, and, as the days slipped by, it became increasingly
difficult to introduce the subject.
Moreover, amid the change of environment and influence, Sara experienced
a certain almost inevitable reaction of feeling. It was not that she
actually regretted her engagement, but none the less she found herself
supersensitively conscious of it, and she chafed against the thought of
the congratulations and all the kindly, well-meant “fussation” which its
announcement would entail.
She told herself irritably that this was only because she had not yet
had time to get used to the idea of regarding herself as Tim's future
wife; that, later on, when she had grown more accustomed to it, the
prospect of her friends' felicitations would appear less repugnant. She
had to face the ultimate fact that marriage, for her, did not mean the
crowning fulfillment of life; marriage with Tim would never be anything
more than a substitute, a next best thing.
With these thoughts in her mind, she finally decided to say nothing
about her engagement for the present, but to pick up the threads of life
at Sunnyside as though that crowded month in London, with its unexpected
culmination, had never been.
Once taken, the decision afforded her a curious sense of respite
and relief. It was very pleasant to drop back into the old habits of
managing the Sunnyside _ménage_--making herself indispensable to Selwyn,
humouring his wife, and keeping a watchful eye on Molly.
The latter, Sara found, was by far the most difficult part of her task,
and the vague apprehensions she had formed, and to some extent shared
with Selwyn before her visit to London, increased.
From an essentially lovable, inconsequent creature, with a temper of an
angel and the frankness of a child, Molly had become oddly nervous
and irritable, flushing and paling suddenly for no apparent cause, and
guardedly uncommunicative as to her comings and goings. She was oddly
resentful of any manifestation of interest in her affairs, and snubbed
Sara roundly when the latter ventured an injudicious inquiry as to
whether Lester Kent were still in the neighbourhood.
“How on earth should I know?” The golden-brown eyes met Sara's with a
look of nervous defiance. “I'm not his keeper.” Then, as though slightly
ashamed of her outburst, she added more amiably: “I haven't been down to
the Club for weeks. It's been so hot--and I suppose I've been lazy.
But I'm going to-morrow. I shall be able to gratify your curiosity
concerning Lester Kent when I come home.”
“To-morrow?” Sara looks surprised. “But we promised to go to tea with
Audrey to-morrow.”
Molly flushed and looked away.
“Did we?” she said vaguely. “I'd forgotten.”
“Can't you arrange to go to Oldhampton the next day instead?” continued
Sara.
Molly frowned a little. At last--
“I tell you what I'll do,” she said agreeably. “I'll come back by the
afternoon train and meet you at Greenacres.” And with this concession
Sara had to be content.
Tea at Greenacres resolved itself into a kind of rarefied picnic, and,
as Sara crossed the cool green lawns in the wake of a smart parlourmaid,
she found that quite a considerable number of Audrey's friends--and
enemies--were gathered together under the shade of the trees, partaking
of tea and strawberries and cream. The _elite_ of the neighbourhood
might find many disagreeable things to say concerning Mrs. Maynard, but
they were not in the least averse to accepting her hospitality whenever
the opportunity presented itself.
Sara's heart leapt suddenly as she descried Trent's lean, well-knit
figure amongst those dotted about on the lawn. She had tried very hard
to accustom herself to meet him with composure, but at each encounter,
although outwardly quite cool, her pulses raced, and to-day, the first
time she had seen him since her return from London, she felt as though
all her nerves were outside her skin instead of underneath it.
He was talking to Miles Herrick. The latter, lying back luxuriously in
a deck-chair, proceeded to wave and beckon an enthusiastic greeting as
soon as he caught sight of Sara, and rather reluctantly she responded to
his signals and made her way towards the two men.
“I feel like a bloated sultan summoning one of the ladies of the harem
to his presence,” confessed Miles apologetically when he had shaken
hands. “I've added a sprained ankle to my other disabilities,” he
continued cheerfully. “Hence my apparent laziness.”
Sara commiserated appropriately.
“How did you manage to get here?” she asked.
Miles gestured towards Trent.
“This man maintained that it was bad for my mental and moral health
to brood alone at home while Lavinia went skipping off into society
unchaperoned. So he fetched me along in his car.”
Sara's eyes rested thoughtfully on Trent's face a moment.
It was odd how kindly and considerate he always showed himself towards
Miles Herrick. Perhaps somewhere within him a responsive chord was
touched by the evidence of the other man's broken life.
“Miss Tennant is thinking that it's a case of the blind leading the
blind for me to act as a cicerone into society,” remarked Trent curtly.
Sara winced at the repellent hardness of his tone, but she declined to
take up the challenge.
“I am very glad you persuaded Miles to come over,” was all she said.
Trent's lips closed in a straight line. It seemed as though he were
trying to resist the appeal of her gently given answer; and Miles,
conscious of the antagonism in the atmosphere, interposed with some
commonplace question concerning her visit to London.
“You're looking thinner than you were, Sara,” he added critically.
She flushed a little as she felt Trent's hawk-like glance sweep over
her.
“Oh, I've been leading too gay a life,” she said hastily. “The Durwards
seem to know half London, so that we crowded about a dozen engagements
into each day--and a few more into the night.”
“_Durward_?” The word sprang violently from Trent's lips, almost
as though jerked out of him, and Sara, glancing towards him in some
astonishment, surprised a strange, suddenly vigilant expression in his
face. It was immediately succeeded by a blank look of indifference, yet
beneath the assumption of indifference his eyes seemed to burn with a
kind of slumbering hostility.
“Yes--the people I have been staying with,” she explained. “Do you know
them, by any chance?”
“I really can't say,” he replied carelessly. “Durward is not a very
uncommon name, is it?”
“Their name was originally Lovell--they only acquired the Durward with
some property. Mrs. Durward is an extraordinarily beautiful woman. I
believe in her younger days she had half London in love with her.”
Sara hardly knew why she felt impelled to supply so many particulars
concerning the Durwards. After that first brief exclamation, Trent
seemed to have lost interest, and appeared to be rather bored by the
recital than otherwise. He made no comment when she had finished.
“Then you don't know them?” she asked at last.
“I?” He started slightly, as though recalled to the present by her
question. “No. I haven't the pleasure to be numbered amongst Mrs.
Durward's friends,” he said quietly. “I have seen her, however.”
“She is very beautiful, don't you think?” persisted Sara.
“Very,” he replied indifferently. And then, quite deliberately, he
directed the conversation into another channel, leaving Sara feeling
exactly as though a door had been slammed in her face.
It was his old method of putting an end to a discussion that failed to
please him--this arrogantly abrupt transition to another subject--and,
though it served its immediate purpose, it was a method that had its
weaknesses. If you deliberately hide behind a hedge, any one who catches
you in the act naturally wonders why you are doing it.
Even Miles looked a trifle astonished at Trent's curt dismissal of the
Durward topic, and Sara, who had observed the strange expression that
leaped into his eyes--half-guarded, half inimical--felt convinced that
he knew more about the Durwards than he had chosen to acknowledge.
She could not imagine in what way they were connected with his life, nor
why he should have been so averse to admitting his knowledge of them.
But there were many inexplicable circumstances associated with the man
who had chosen to live more or less the life of a recluse at Far End;
and Sara, and the little circle of intimates who had at last succeeded
in drawing him into their midst, had accustomed themselves to the
atmosphere of secrecy that seemed to envelope him.
From his obvious desire to eschew the society of his fellow men and
women, and from the acid cynicism of his outlook on things in general,
it had been gradually assumed amongst them that some happenings in the
past had marred his life, poisoning the springs of faith, and hope, and
charity at their very fount, and with the tact of real friendship they
never sought to discover what he so evidently wished concealed.
“Where is Molly to-day?” Miles's pleasant voice broke across the
awkward moment, giving yet a fresh trend to the conversation that was
languishing uncomfortably.
Sara's gaze ranged searchingly over the little groups of people
sprinkled about the lawn.
“Isn't she here yet?” she asked, startled. “She was coming back from
Oldhampton by the afternoon train, and promised to meet me here.”
Miles looked at his watch.
“The attractions of Oldhampton have evidently proved too strong for
her,” he said a little drily. “If she had come by the afternoon train,
she would have been here an hour ago.”
Sara looked troubled.
“Oh, but she _must_ be here--somewhere,” she insisted rather anxiously.
“Shall I see if I can find her for you?” suggested Trent stiffly.
Sara, sensing his wish to be gone and genuinely disturbed at Molly's
non-appearance, acquiesced.
“I should be very glad if you would,” she answered. Then turning to
Miles, she went on: “I can't think where she can be. Somehow, Molly has
become rather--difficult, lately.”
Herrick smiled.
“Don't look so distressed. It is only a little ebullition of _la
jeunesse_.”
Sara turned to him swiftly.
“Then you've noticed it, too--that she is different?”
He nodded.
“Lookers-on see most of the game, you know. And I'm essentially a
looker-on.” He bit back a quick sigh, and went on hastily: “But I don't
think you need worry about our Molly's vagaries. She's too sound _au
fond_ to get into real mischief.”
“She wouldn't mean to,” conceded Sara. “But she is----” She hesitated.
“Youthfully irresponsible,” suggested Miles. “Let it go at that.”
Sara looked at him affectionately, reflecting that Trent's black
cynicism made a striking foil to the serene and constant charity of
Herrick's outlook.
“You always look for the best in people, Miles,” she said
appreciatively.
“I have to. Don't you see, people are my whole world. I'm cut off from
everything else. If I didn't look for the best in them, I should want
to kill myself. And I'm pretty lucky,” he added, smiling humorously. “I
generally find what I'm looking for.”
At this moment Trent returned with the news that Molly was nowhere to be
found. It was evident she had not come to Greenacres at all.
Sara rose, feeling oddly apprehensive.
“Then I think I shall go home and see if she has arrived there yet,”
she said. She smiled down at Miles. “Even irresponsibility needs
checking--if carried too far.”