Maurice Lucian was entirely right in supposing that there were no such
things as “rows” at Squires, but the absence of them was not accepted
as a matter of course by Rose Aviolet.
A great deal of her intercourse with her dead mother had consisted in
descriptions--perhaps vehement rather than accurate--on Mrs. Smith’s
part of “a real old hullabaloo between her and me, and I gave it her
straight, _I_ can tell you, with her silly old letter about putting it
into the hands of her solicitors if I didn’t pay up then and there,”
and on Rose’s part of “Well, Mother, I wasn’t going to stand that from
a girl like Esther Moses, needless to say, and I said, Mother, I just
said, ‘Yes, you may be very good at arithmetic,’ I said, ‘and good
reason why,’ I said, ‘_Jewess!_’”
Rose and her mother, however indignant, had always rather enjoyed their
scenes at the moment of occurrence, and still more in the retrospect.
Scenes with Jim, later on, Rose had enjoyed less, but she had entirely
accepted them as part of everyday life, although her pride had not
allowed her the satisfaction of retailing them afterwards. At Squires,
for the first time in her life, she was in an atmosphere in which
scenes could not exist.
To her perceptions, nothing vital could exist at Squires at all, except
her own vehement emotions, and these were deprived of the only outlet
that she knew--unrestrained speech.
The weeks and even the months slid by in a deadly monotony.
“I’m afraid it’s dull for you, Rose,” said her mother-in-law, after the
first anniversary of Rose’s widowhood had passed, and she had discarded
as much as she dared of her conventional mourning.
“Well, it is, in a way. Of course there was always a lot going on in
Ceylon.”
“I believe these Indian hill-stations are very gay,” Lady Aviolet
assented. Nothing had ever succeeded in making her remember that
“India” could not cover the whole of the East.
“Ceylon isn’t India,” said Rose bluntly.
She thought Lady Aviolet a fool, and her tone said as much.
“Gaieties are naturally out of the question, but we thought of asking
one or two people here for the shooting. I don’t think you’ve met Diana
Grierson-Amberly, a young cousin of mine. Her father has a nice old
place on the far side of the county. She generally pays us a visit in
the autumn.”
Rose, utterly inexperienced in the catch-words used in polite society,
could think of no reply, and therefore said blankly: “Oh!”
Lady Aviolet sighed, and went on knitting. Rose’s hands lay idle in
her lap. She knew how to make her own underclothes, and how to darn
stockings, but considered the practice of either art unfitted to the
Squires’ drawing-room. She did not knit, because she did not know
what to make, and had often speculated as to the destination of Lady
Aviolet’s innumerable woolly garments.
“Diana is wonderfully musical, and plays the violin a great deal.”
“Oh, does she?”
“She was always a great friend of the boys, although she is a good many
years younger. She is so good at games.”
“Oh, is she?”
“She has been brought up with her brothers, and has even been allowed
to go out with the guns. I believe she is an excellent shot.”
“What does she shoot?” Rose enquired with the first spark of interest
that Miss Grierson-Amberly had succeeded in rousing within her.
Lady Aviolet looked rather astonished. “Just what they all do, my
dear--rabbits, or partridges, or pheasants, as the case may be. No
big-game shooting, or anything like that, of course. She is only about
your own age.”
“Oh,” said Rose.
“Is there any one whom you would care to ask here for a day or two’s
shooting, perhaps?”
Lady Aviolet’s tone held not the slightest hint that she had debated
the propriety of this rather rash invitation for several days before
giving it, and had finally done so against the advice of her husband.
Rose was astonished and grateful.
“Thank you very much. It’s very kind of you. But there isn’t anybody. I
don’t know anybody, you see. My uncle couldn’t leave his business, and
besides, I don’t suppose he can shoot. Besides, him and me had rather
a row before I left England, and I haven’t seen him since, although
we’ve sort of made it up by letter.”
“Perhaps he will come another time, when the guns are not busy,” said
Lady Aviolet impassively.
She was completely unaware that Rose was surprised, and rather
disappointed, at not being asked for details of the “row.”
“We are hoping to secure a friend of Ford’s, Lord Charlesbury, and one
or two other men. Lord Charlesbury is a widower, poor fellow, and has
a boy rather older than Cecil. He lost his wife when the boy was born,
and has never married since.”
“Poor little boy, without a mother!” said Rose. “What do they do with
him?”
“Oh, of course, he’s at school now, very happy indeed. In fact,
Ford thought you and he might talk about a good preparatory school
for little Cecil with Lord Charlesbury, who has been into it all so
recently.”
“I see,” said Rose.
The question of school had been in abeyance lately.
A nursery governess was installed at Squires, and Rose, to the surprise
of her mother-in-law, had submitted to having Cecil less with her, and
had refrained from interference on the few occasions when he fell into
disgrace, and was punished, very mildly, by little Miss Wade.
“We thought of asking him for the First,” Lady Aviolet said.
“The first what?”
“The First of September, my dear.”
And Rose, no wiser than before, for the fifth time could think of no
more brilliant rejoinder than “Oh!”
She was, however, pleased at the thought of a party, and went to
London and bought two new dresses and a new hat, wishing regretfully
that she dared buy coloured things instead of black ones.
On the last day of August Diana Grierson-Amberly arrived. Rose, at
first sight of her, sweepingly decided that she was neither smart nor
pretty, and, even more rashly, that in the absence of either of these
attributes, she could not be very interesting. She willingly conceded,
however, that Diana was “nice” when she heard her speak pleasantly
to little Cecil, who was allowed to have tea in the hall with his
governess.
The attraction that Miss Grierson-Amberly possessed for a small
proportion of her fellow-countrymen, although unappreciated by Rose
Aviolet, was very far from being non-existent.
Tall and fair, with a typically English face and figure, she looked
exactly what Lady Aviolet had said that she was--very good at games.
Her chest was as flat as her back, her feet and hands rather large,
her face pleasantly vacant, with a beautiful fresh complexion,
blue eyes, and a soft mouth that was always slightly open. Rose
envied her the perfect self-possession with which she answered Lady
Aviolet’s questions, patting and fondling Pug--but not feeding him
from the table, a practice that invariably annoyed Sir Thomas when
surreptitiously attempted by Cecil’s governess--and returning Ford’s
greeting with pleasant, cousinly calm.
“How d’ye do, Diana.”
“How are you, Ford.”
They shook hands, with a momentary exchange of smiles.
“Are you coming out with us to-morrow?”
“Oh, no. I’m not allowed to go out with a gun, really, except with
father and the boys.”
“I hear you do great execution, Diana,” said Sir Thomas. “What do you
shoot with?”
“A twenty-bore. I couldn’t carry a twelve-bore all day long, I’m sure.”
She turned good-naturedly to Rose, who was staring at her with enormous
brown eyes.
“Do you shoot, Mrs. Aviolet?”
“Gracious, no.”
The expletive, savouring rather of Rose’s early surroundings than of
her present ones, fell strangely across the atmosphere of the hall at
Squires.
“You didn’t get any big-game shooting in the East, then. That’s what
made me ask----” Diana said, as though feeling that an apology was
perhaps required for the suggestion that had called forth so energetic
a declaimer.
“Oh, Lord, no,” said Rose.
Ford coughed very gently.
“You’ve brought your fiddle, Diana, I hope,” said Lady Aviolet.
“I have. I’m afraid I’m dreadfully out of practice, though. One gets so
little time.”
“We must have some music after dinner to-night. I know Rose is fond
of music, though we do not often hear her play.” Lady Aviolet glanced
amiably at her daughter-in-law.
“I can play to-night, if you like,” said Rose abruptly, impelled by an
unrecognized instinct of self-assertion, born of her own consciousness
that she was out of place amongst these people.
“I can play _her_ accompaniments.” She nodded at Diana, not knowing
whether or not she was expected to use the girl’s Christian name.
“How nice of you,” said Diana lightly. “I’ve heaps of music and we’re
sure to find something you know.”
The conversation drifted on easily enough. Cecil and Miss Wade went
away into the garden, and Rose looked after them with longing eyes,
wishing that she could go and play with the little boy, and yet staunch
to her resolution that “they” should have their own way in all the
things that didn’t matter.
She thought that politeness required her to remain at the tea-table,
leaning back in an uncomfortable upright chair, but it did not occur
to her to simulate any interest in a conversation which bored her
profoundly, and she was as nearly as possible unconscious that every
now and then she stifled a half-checked yawn with the back of her hand.
“I hear you have some new neighbours at Bolestone, Diana.”
“Yes, Cousin Catherine. The Frederick Ollertons--such nice people.”
“Let me see, who was she?”
“Wasn’t she a Trevor?” said Ford.
“No, no. You’re thinking of the _Arthur_ Ollertons, in Surrey. _He_
married a Trevor.”
“Ah, that’s it,” Sir Thomas agreed.
“Then who was Mrs. Fred Ollerton? A Bannister?”
“No, that wasn’t it.” Diana’s open brow was corrugated. “No, not a
Bannister, though there’s some connection--I think the present Lord
Bannister is her uncle.”
“Then she must have been a Saunderson,” Lady Aviolet decided.
“Yes, she was.” Diana’s face relaxed as she agreed almost with
enthusiasm. “She was, Cousin Catherine. How stupid of me to forget! Her
sister was with them last Christmas--Miss Saunderson.”
“That must have been Connie Saunderson, then--she’s the only unmarried
one. The eldest one married Lord Everleach, Connie is unmarried, and
Mrs. Frederick Ollerton must be the youngest of them. So disappointing
for the Saundersons that there should have been no son in that family.”
“It all goes to a nephew, I believe,” Sir Thomas said.
“Young Verulam, yes. Have you met him, Diana?” Ford enquired.
“I’ve danced with him. He was at the Hunt Ball this year.” She turned
amiably to Rose. “Do you know him?”
Rose, startled from the vacancy of thought into which she had drifted
in her complete inattention to a conversation that she considered
futile, replied brusquely “No,” and there was a sudden silence.
Then Diana, with the super-evident tact of the kind-hearted, remarked
rather lamely, “Oh, of course, you’ve been abroad, haven’t you? I
forgot that.”
Ford rose, smiling gently after his wont, his mouth curving slightly,
his narrow eyes opaque and sombre.
“I hear the carriage, Mother. I hope that’s Charlesbury.”
Diana said, “Oh, good,” in a placid way and Rose straightened herself
in her chair, and from long habit, fluffed up a straight end of hair on
her temple between her first and second fingers.
Lord Charlesbury was tall, with a kind, thin, sunburnt face, rather
good-looking in spite of approaching baldness, and wearing an eyeglass
to which Rose, inwardly, after her usual trenchant fashion, immediately
applied the epithet of “la-di-dah.”
He greeted Diana Grierson-Amberly by her Christian name, and appeared
to be on intimate terms with his hosts.
“How’s the boy, Laurence?”
“Going strong, thanks. He’s as happy as the day is long at Hurst, and
they tell me he’s going to be a cricketer.”
“Oh, good,” said Diana again, this time with rather more enthusiasm in
her tone.
“He can bowl a very good overarm ball already, and funnily enough he’s
a natural left-hand bowler. Don’t know where he gets it from.”
“Very disconcerting thing, to stand up to a left-hand bowler, I always
think,” said Sir Thomas.
“Has your boy begun cricket yet?” Lord Charlesbury asked Rose, to her
surprise.
She was astonished, but gratified and pleased at any friendly allusion
to Cecil.
“How did you know I’d got a little boy?” she asked naïvely.
Lady Aviolet looked disturbed, but Charlesbury laughed low and
pleasantly.
“Of course I knew. He and my little fellow must be much about the same
age. We must arrange a meeting these holidays.”
“He would like another boy to play with. He’s never had anybody.”
“Ah, well, school will put that right. Hugh is an only child, too. But
he’s found his level all right. Hurst is a good place.”
“Is that his school?”
“Preparatory school--yes. I’ve got his name down for Eton and
Winchester, at present.”
Rose wondered why any one’s name should be down for two different
places, but the subject was not one that she wanted to pursue.
“Cecil’s not quite eight, yet, and he’s backward too, from being
brought up in Ceylon.”
“You’ve not been back from the East so very long, have you?”
“It seems ages.”
Charlesbury was looking at her with such evident interest and
admiration that Rose rapidly felt at her ease with him, and began to
talk in the manner--and also at the pitch--natural to her.
“Heaps of people at home seem to think that Ceylon is the same as
India, but it isn’t, in the least,” she told him. “Ceylon is an island
that has nothing to do with India, really. It’s not half a bad place,
especially up in the hills. We were in a place called Newara Eliya most
of the time, and it was as cool as anything. Colombo is sweltering, of
course, and as damp as can be. It’s on the sea, you know.”
“Rose,” said Ford’s very quiet and distinct voice at her elbow,
“as Lord Charlesbury happens to be a distinguished member of the
Geographical Society and the author of several books about the East
may I suggest that you are, in the vulgar phrase, importing coals to
Newcastle?”
Rose flushed scarlet, rather from anger than from confusion, but
before she could speak Charlesbury had interposed quickly and
courteously:
“Indeed, I cannot claim anything like Mrs. Aviolet’s acquaintance with
Ceylon. I have never had a stay of more than twenty-four hours there,
much as I should have liked it. Like the wretched traveller of the song
‘From place to place they hurry me--and think that I forget,’ which is
only too true. It takes years in a place to retain any real impression
of it. Now you, Mrs. Aviolet, are young, and I am sure have a most
excellent memory. Your description of life in the East would have the
true, authentic ring about it, whereas mine could only be an imperfect
hash of muddled recollections.”
His speech gave Rose time to collect herself. But it was her vivid
recognition of the kindliness that had prompted it, which made her
conscious of an ardent rush of intense gratitude at the restoration of
her self-esteem.
With candid rudeness, she deliberately moved her chair round so that
her back was turned to Ford.
No flicker of expression betrayed whether or not Lord Charlesbury took
note of this unusual form of social repartee.
He continued to talk in his low, cultivated tones, every now and then
appealing to Rose’s judgment and always listening, interested and
deferential, to her replies.
She found him delightful, and was entirely undisturbed by any
realization of the fact that she was monopolizing the principal guest
present.
Her inexperience did not even perceive that it was he who presently
contrived to include their hostess in the conversation.
She went up to her room to dress for dinner with the pleasant
consciousness, strange to her since she had come to Squires, of having
been a success.
“It’s only Ford that always tries to make a fool of me,” was her
self-consolatory _résumé_ of the unfortunate moment when she had been
abruptly arrested in her description of Ceylon.
As soon as she was dressed, Rose went upstairs, two steps at a time as
she always did, to wish Cecil good-night.
“Mummie, Miss Wade says there’s a gentleman staying here who has a
little boy the same age as me, and he’s at school and can play cricket.”
“He’s not the same age as you, he’s older,” said Rose sharply.
“When am I going to school?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you like doing lessons with Miss Wade?”
“No. I want to go to school and play cricket. Grandpapa says all boys
play cricket.”
“Well, you can play cricket here.”
“Who with?” Cecil not unnaturally demanded.
“We’ll see. Now say your prayers.”
Cecil knelt up in bed, folding his hands and closing his eyes, and
repeated rapidly:
“Pray God bless Mummie, an’ Grandpapa an’ Grandmama an’ everybody an’
make me a good boy for Chrissakeamen. An’ let me go to school and play
cricket best of all the boys.”
At the last unexpected petition he slyly peeped through his long lashes
at Rose, as though to see how the innovation would strike her. She
said nothing, but inwardly she was both frightened and angered.
“Good-night, precious. Sleep well.”
“Good-night, Mummie.”
She kissed him and went away.
At the door of the nursery she paused.
“Miss Wade.”
“Yes, Mrs. Aviolet?”
The little governess was meek and inoffensive. She generally wore a
conciliatory smile and coloured up to her spectacles with nervousness
when she was spoken to unexpectedly.
“Has Ces been having ideas put into his head about going to school?”
Miss Wade looked very much astonished.
“I don’t think I quite understand what you mean, Mrs. Aviolet.”
She looked so frightened that Rose burst out laughing.
“He said something about it just now, that’s all, and you know,
nothing’s settled yet, and he’s very backward about lessons.”
“I am doing my best to get him on as fast as possible,” replied Miss
Wade, now obviously rather offended, “but of course if you’re not
satisfied with his progress, Mrs. Aviolet, I’d much rather be told so.
I quite understand----”
“Oh, my Lord!” was the exasperated exclamation of Rose Aviolet. “I
don’t mean that at all. He’s getting on like a house on fire. I only
mean that it isn’t any good, him or anybody else, thinking that he’s
going dashing off to school as a matter of course, just because it’s
supposed to be the proper thing to do.”
Rose’s explanation did not appear to afford any illumination to little
Miss Wade.
“Lady Aviolet distinctly informed me that I was preparing Cecil for
school,” she said. “If he were not so behindhand in English--though I’m
sure it’s very natural that he should be so, after India--I should have
started him in Latin by this time.”
“Ceylon isn’t India,” said Rose, infuriated, and walked out of the
nursery.
Half-way downstairs again, remorse suddenly overtook her.
“What a pig I am! Worse than the Pryce-Jones woman was to me, and,
after all, it might just as well be _me_ sitting stuffed up in that old
nursery mending Cecil’s clothes and _her_ prancing down to dinner in a
low frock. I’d better----”
She turned round and dashed upstairs once more, and burst open the
nursery door.
“I’m sorry I seemed cross. It wasn’t anything to do with you, really,
and I think Ces is getting on first-rate, truly I do. ’Night-night.”
Late for dinner and stumbling over her long dress as she hastened
downstairs, Rose felt better satisfied with herself.
Miss Wade, who had perceived from the first moment of her arrival
that Mrs. Aviolet was no lady, felt her opinion to have received
confirmation good and strong, and from that moment she despised Cecil’s
mother from the bottom of her little soul.
Dinner that evening was the most amusing gathering at which Rose had
assisted since coming to Squires, although she was disappointed not to
find herself placed next to Lord Charlesbury.
She sat between Sir Thomas and a young fox-hunting squire, the only
other guest staying in the house, whom everyone excepting herself
seemed to call Toby. As soon as she had discovered that he liked
playing cards, they discussed whisky-poker, made very familiar to Rose
both in Ceylon and on board ship.
On the other side of the table, Lord Charlesbury listened to Miss
Grierson-Amberly’s flat, pleasant tones with exactly the same
appearance of intense interest that he had accorded to Rose’s monologue
earlier in the day. But every now and then he adjusted his single
eyeglass and glanced across the glittering expanse of white cloth,
crystal, and silver.
The conversation only became general when Rose’s neighbour spoke
animatedly upon the subject of billiards.
“We might have a game after dinner,” said Sir Thomas. “Though I’m
afraid we don’t muster very strong here.”
He paused a moment.
Jim Aviolet had played billiards.
“I’m a very poor performer,” said Ford. “Toby could give me fifty in a
hundred and a beating, easily. Are you an expert, Diana?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know one end of a cue from the other,” she
confessed, and then discounted the admission by adding: “but I can mark
for you.”
“I can play,” said Rose, “but I’m awfully bad.”
“I’m afraid that Toby is ‘awfully’ good,” Ford told her, stressing the
slang qualification. “If you want a foe worthy of your steel, Toby, we
might ask Dr. Lucian up one evening. He’s a local worthy--and a very
fine player at that.”
Something in the patronizing inflection of the words, no less than the
implied rebuke to herself, roused Rose’s never very deeply dormant
pugnacity.
“Dr. Lucian is most awfully nice,” she proclaimed very loudly. “I like
him and his sister. They’re--they’re awfully nice.”
She coloured and unconsciously tossed her head as she bore her
haltingly worded testimony. There was a moment’s silence.
“I remember Lucian,” said Lord Charlesbury. “A clever fellow, too. I
should like to meet him again.”
“Perhaps he could dine here one night, and you might have some good
billiards,” said Lady Aviolet.
She looked at Diana Grierson-Amberly and they both rose.
In the drawing-room, Lady Aviolet turned to Diana.
“I hope your violin is down here, Di.”
“It’s upstairs, but I’ll fetch it.”
“Your coffee, my dear....”
“Mother doesn’t let me have it, Cousin Catherine, because of my
complexion.”
“Ah, well, you can’t be too careful,” the elder lady acquiesced.
When the girl had gone upstairs, she said to her daughter-in-law:
“I should like to ask Dr. Lucian to dinner, Rose, since he is a friend
of yours. But I am afraid that I have never called upon his sister.”
Rose could think of no reply to the last half of the announcement, and
therefore ignored it.
“I hope he’ll come,” she said. “He’s very nice and he’s awf--very
interested in Cecil.”
“He knew Cecil’s father many years ago, and in fact he has known all
of us for many years--ever since he first came down here from London.
I believe he’s very highly thought of in his profession. A clever man,
Ford calls him.”
She was complacently secure that Ford’s judgment must be infallible,
but in this instance Rose felt no desire to dispute it.
“Won’t you look through my pieces, Mrs. Aviolet?” Diana’s voice
inquired behind her.
The girl had returned with her violin-case and a neat pile of music.
She opened the grand piano that Rose had never dared to touch, as she
spoke. Her pieces, as she had called them, were thoroughly deserving of
the name. There was Thomé’s “Simple Aveu” and somebody’s “Variations in
F,” and some Operatic Selections, and a good deal of French music.
Already Rose was regretting the rash impulse that had moved her to
volunteer the accompaniments.
“I’m more used to songs than to violin pieces,” she answered nervously.
“We’ll have a practice together to-morrow morning, before we perform in
public,” Diana good-naturedly suggested.
But when the men came into the drawing-room, the youth Toby was
clamorous for some music, and Sir Thomas politely seconded his urgent
requests.
“Try this,” Diana said to Rose again and again. “It’s so very easy,
really.”
And Rose, giggling nervously, repeated loudly: “No, I couldn’t--really,
I couldn’t,” a great many times.
At last she agreed to attempt the “Variations” and sat down at the
piano, endeavouring to give herself confidence by the preliminary
sketchy “run” that had been the orthodox prelude to all piano solos at
school.
Her fingers, stiff from absence of practice, bungled it badly, but she
regained courage at the first bars of the very simple music.
“One, two and three, four,” murmured Rose under her breath, violently
stressing the first beat in every bar, regardless of phrasing, and
vaguely hopeful that the application of the loud pedal would drown any
false notes.
If Diana’s playing was mediocre, that of Rose was definitely
vulgar, although she possessed a real ability to read at sight, and
considerable muscular power and agility.
“Oh, thanks awfully!” cried Toby, when it was over. “Have you got that
ripping waltz out of ‘The Strawberry Girl’?”
“Well played, well played,” muttered Sir Thomas, not looking up from
his _Times_.
Charlesbury said nothing at all, and Ford, going over to the piano,
silently assisted Rose to close it, with an air which plainly implied
that there remained nothing else to be done.
“I suppose I made a fool of myself,” she observed with an angry laugh.
He made no reply.
“She--your cousin--doesn’t play awfully well herself, does she? On her
fiddle, I mean.”
“She has had some very good teaching, I believe.”
“Of course, she was miles better than I was,” Rose added with belated
generosity. “Not that that’s saying much. I’m awfully out of practice.”
Ford made no reply at all, and Rose, in her desire for reassurance,
found temerity to cross the length of the room and sit down beside
Charlesbury.
He stood up, as she dropped into her armchair with the flouncing
movement of a schoolgirl, but to her relief sat down again almost at
once and looked at her with his kind, interested smile.
“I am sure you love music,” he said to her.
“Yes, I do. Not that you’d have thought so, from the row I made just
now. I don’t know why I ever said I’d play her accompaniments. I’ve
never accompanied a violin before, only songs.”
“You husband didn’t care for music, did he?” said Charlesbury, rather
as though stating a fact.
“Not a bit. Did you know Jim?”
“I knew him a little. I’ve known them all for years. But Ford is the
one I’ve seen the most of, although he is younger than I am by several
years.”
“They told me you were his friend, and I was so surprised, after I’d
seen you.”
Charlesbury smiled a little.
“Why were you surprised?”
“Well, you know, I think he’s odious,” said Rose.
Even Lord Charlesbury’s calm wavered slightly before the singular
candour of this unvarnished revelation.
“H’sh--his mother may hear you ...” he indicated Lady Aviolet, knitting
placidly.
“I daresay she knows quite well what I think,” said Rose gloomily, her
voice obediently lowered.
“I hope not.”
He looked down at the monocle, idle between his fingers.
“I’m so sorry you feel like that, Mrs. Aviolet. It must make it so
extraordinarily lonely for you here.”
She felt a rush of warm gratitude for the sympathy in his voice.
“Oh, it does. I’m a--a fish out of water, altogether, and I’d go away
to-morrow if it wasn’t for little Ces. It isn’t only Ford--though I
hate him the worst--it’s the whole life--everything.”
“I’m so sorry for you,” he repeated gently.
“Thank you,” said Rose Aviolet, her honest, child-like brown eyes
gazing at him, and her rouged mouth trembling a little with the
sincerity of her feelings.
V
“What do they want to start off so early for?” said Rose
disconsolately, when the men of the party went away the next morning
with their guns as soon as breakfast was over.
She envisaged without enthusiasm the prospect of a morning spent
_tête-à-tête_ with Miss Grierson-Amberly.
“Where’s Cecil?” Diana asked. “Couldn’t we take him out?”
Rose’s face lightened immediately.
“That’d be lovely, and it’s simply sweet of you to think of it. He has
lessons in the morning, but I should think he could come with us at
lunch time.”
They were to meet the guns for luncheon.
“He’d enjoy that, wouldn’t he, and it would be great fun to have him,”
Diana said in her placid voice.
Rose wondered whether she ever spoke vehemently or with passion. It did
not seem likely.
Lady Aviolet was in her own room, and Rose felt, uneasily, that upon
her devolved the entertainment of the visitor.
“What would you like to do?” she demanded abruptly, far too unsure of
her ground to make any suggestion, and completely convinced that Diana
would be at no loss.
“Please don’t let me be a bother, I’m sure you’re very busy. I’d love
to go round the garden, if I may.”
The garden, of course!
Rose never could remember that a garden was interesting.
“I’ll come with you,” she volunteered.
She did not like to ask Miss Grierson-Amberly to wait while she
went upstairs and changed her shoes, so she went out in her thin
house-slippers and inappropriate openwork stockings. The girl, she
noticed, had come down to breakfast wearing thick, heavy shoes with
fringed tongues and woollen stockings.
“How’s the rock-garden?” Diana inquired.
“Oh, it’s all right.”
“Lady Aviolet always has such nice things. Are you keen on gardening
too?”
“I don’t really know anything about it.”
“Neither do I,” Diana assured her, but Rose felt that their disclaimers
were based upon the radically differing foundations of modesty and
truthfulness respectively.
Their progress round the garden was punctuated by interested
exclamations and inquiries from Diana, to which Rose made but
inadequate rejoinders.
“What _is_ that? I know I ought to know, we’ve got some at home, but I
can’t remember.”
“It’s a lily,” said Rose, surprised.
“Yes. I meant what sort,” Diana explained gently.
They went into the hothouses.
“It reminds me of Colombo,” Rose said, of the moist, hot atmosphere.
An odd wave of nostalgia came over her, less for the East than for the
sense of something familiar, well known to her, and holding none of the
pitfalls that she felt to be everywhere in the strange surroundings of
her new life.
“Why, I’ve only this minute thought of it, but of course you must have
known the Powerfields in Colombo!” Diana’s tone of pleased discovery
interrupted her thoughts.
“The Powerfields?”
“Betty Powerfield was a friend of mine before she married. I haven’t
seen her since she married Sir William.”
“We were up-country most of the time, we didn’t know any of the
Government House people; of course I’ve seen them at the Races, and
places like that, but that’s all.”
“How stupid of me! I forgot you were up-country. Of course, one forgets
the distances out there.”
Rose swallowed audibly.
“We were in Colombo quite a lot, as well as up-country but we didn’t
know the Government House people anyway. Jim didn’t even put our names
down in the book, so of course we didn’t get asked to even the official
parties. It wouldn’t have been any use.”
Diana did not try to elucidate this cryptic remark.
She talked about gardening again.
“Are you very fond of the country?” Rose said to her at last.
“I like it better than London, I think, really.”
It seemed as though superlatives were for ever outside the range of
Miss Grierson-Amberly’s vocabulary.
“London is great fun, of course, though I always think it’s rather a
pity to go there just when the country is nicest--May and June, you
know. But, of course, in the winter, there’s the hunting. Do you hunt,
Mrs. Aviolet?”
“Oh, Lord, no!”
“I suppose your little boy will want to start. All the Aviolets ride so
well.”
“Ces can ride,” said Rose proudly. “He took to it quite naturally and
wasn’t a bit afraid.”
“Oh, good. Shall you let him hunt this winter?”
“Yes, if they want him to.”
Rose was quite steady and resolved upon that point. She herself was
afraid of horses, knowing nothing about them. Her stock comment, at
the Sunday after-church progress of inspection round the stables, was
always: “That horse is a pretty colour, isn’t it?” But she was eager
that Cecil should be less ignorant than she was herself, and proud that
he should have learnt to ride. She began to tell Miss Grierson-Amberly
of his prowess, boasting freely, and almost unheeding of the civil
sounds of interest and attention that her companion from time to time
emitted. Indeed, as they returned to the house, Rose was inwardly
congratulating herself naïvely on having found a congenial topic that
had caused the time to pass so quickly.
In the hall she stopped dead, and jerked her head in the direction of
Lady Aviolet’s morning-room, of which the door stood ajar, revealing a
glimpse of the grey-headed, square-shouldered figure at the table.
“I say--_you_ ask her, won’t you?”
“Ask her--who? What?”
“If Ces may come out to lunch with us,” whispered Rose, like a
schoolgirl. “I don’t like to, and besides she’ll be more likely to say
Yes if you ask.”
Diana laughed rather uncertainly, as though slightly disconcerted by
the manner of the request, but she obligingly made her suggestion to
Lady Aviolet.
“A very good idea, if Rose will allow it, and there is no objection
on the score of lessons. Rose, will you arrange it with Miss Wade, my
dear?”
Lady Aviolet always deferred to Cecil’s mother in all such minor
questions, and yet Rose never doubted for a moment that the older woman
deplored her upbringing of little Cecil, and looked forward to his
schooldays as to a time of regeneration.
As she thought of it, Rose’s young face assumed slowly a look of almost
mule-like stubbornness. It was as though, like an animal, she was
unable to formulate the terms of her problem rationally, and sought
refuge in blind, unassailable instinct.
“Ces isn’t going to school,” she muttered. “They’ll make him worse
there.”
She often thought of Cecil’s boyish untruthfulness as a disease, just
as Lady Aviolet viewed it as the result of a lack of education, Sir
Thomas as a vulgar form of childish naughtiness, and Ford----?
It was not so easy to penetrate to Ford’s convictions, but he had
hinted that a mixed heredity led to strange results, and Rose knew that
his family pride was outraged by the infusion of Smith blood in Cecil’s
veins. She even had a certain tolerant understanding of his feelings,
though none for his unpleasing manifestations of them.
It annoyed her, secretly, to see that little Cecil admired his uncle,
even although he sometimes seemed to be afraid of him.
Cecil was joyful and excited at the prospect of lunch out of doors. In
the pony-cart, he chattered incessantly, and Lady Aviolet responded
with great patience, until he suddenly said:
“I can carry the partridges for them. I always carry the rabbits when
Uncle Ford shoots. Sometimes they’re all bleeding, but I don’t mind a
bit. I always carry them.”
“Cecil,” said his grandmother sharply, “don’t boast! How many times
have you carried the shot rabbits for Uncle Ford?”
There was just that suggestion of a trap for inaccuracy in her tone
that always scared Cecil, and Rose hastily answered for him.
“Only once, wasn’t it, Cecil?”
“Then why does he say ‘always’?” said Lady Aviolet.
She had long ago told Rose that they must be very particular never to
let any mis-statement from Cecil pass unchallenged. It was their one
hope, she explained, of inculcating the habit of truthfulness. Cecil
now looked confused and alarmed, and as his grandmother fixed her eyes
upon him severely he said: “I meant once, Grandmama.”
“Try and always say what you mean, my dear,” she told him.
Cecil was silent for the rest of the drive, but when they reached the
keeper’s lodge in the wood he pulled Rose into a corner:
“Are you angry, Mummie?”
“No, of course not.” She kissed him resoundingly.
“I did, really and truly, carry the rabbits for Uncle Ford.”
“But not lots of times, Ces.”
“Three times,” he said, nodding his head. “That first time of all, when
Dr. Lucian was there too, and once the day that Miss Wade came, and the
day before yesterday. That makes three.”
Rose suddenly remembered. It was true that Cecil had performed the
office three times for Ford.
“But then--you told Grandmama just now that you meant only once!”
“I thought that was what she wanted me to say,” explained Cecil
piteously.
“Oh, _good_ Lord!” said Rose.
A sort of blank terror invaded her spirit, as the total lack of any
apprehension of truth now and then betrayed by Cecil confronted her
again.
For a moment she could not speak.
“Come and unwrap the potatoes, Cecil,” called Diana gaily, arriving on
foot with Miss Wade, and he ran off quite happily.
The men came in soon afterwards, and Diana asked suitable questions,
and made suitable comments on their replies.
Rose remained silent until they were all seated at the long table that
had been put up in the patch of ground surrounding the cottage. Even
in the perturbation of her spirit, she had noticed with relief and
pleasure that Charlesbury had chosen the seat next to hers. Cecil was
on her other side, interested in his Irish stew.
“I hope you are coming out with us presently,” said Lord Charlesbury.
“We’re shooting over the home farm.”
“It’s all on our way back. I’d like to walk there. But I won’t watch
the poor things being killed--I think it’s cruel.”
“It does seem a barbaric form of amusement, doesn’t it?” He smiled at
her gently, and changed the subject, on which Rose had been prepared to
uphold her views vehemently. She talked to him freely throughout the
meal and looked forward as a matter of course to walking with him after
it was over.
Deliberately, she slackened her pace until they were well behind the
others.
“Lord Charlesbury, I want to ask you something.”
She was looking full at him as she spoke, and for an instant caught a
fleeting glimpse of something like apprehension in his face. Even as
her perceptions registered the look, it vanished, so that she was not
even sure if it had really been there.
“I’m sure you have influence with my brother-in-law, with Ford. Will
you try and make him leave Cecil to me?”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“You see it’s like this,” she spoke breathlessly. “Ford is Cecil’s
guardian. Poor Jim arranged that--he was always doing tiresome things.
And, of course, the Aviolets have got the money. I’ve nothing at all,
and Jim--naturally--only left debts. So here we are on charity.”
“You can’t call it that--your boy’s own people.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a bit.” Rose assured him hastily. “At least hardly at
all. I wouldn’t mind anything, if it were good for Ces, and of course
he’s having splendid advantages here. Isn’t he?”
She looked at him wistfully, as though in sudden needed of reassurance.
“Yes, certainly. He looks such a jolly, happy little chap, too.”
“Well, I think he is. But I--Lord Charlesbury, I don’t want him sent to
school.”
He gave a low whistle.
Rose watched him anxiously.
“It would be a dreadful wrench for you--I understand absolutely. It
isn’t so very long since I sent my Hugh off, looking such a little
fellow too--and, of course, for a mother----”
“Oh, it’s not that!” cried Rose. “You don’t suppose that I’d stand in
his way for one moment, if I thought school was going to be the best
thing for him! But you see, I don’t.”
“But why not?”
“He’s not like other children. He--he’s got a fault. Poor darling! He
doesn’t speak the truth.”
“That is a great pity,” said Charlesbury gravely. “But unfortunately
it’s not a very uncommon failing. Children outgrow it.”
Rose suddenly felt that she and this kind, well-bred man, whom she
liked so much, were not really talking the same language. He did not
despise or condemn, as did the Aviolets, but neither did he understand.
“I don’t think Cecil knows what truth is,” she faltered despondently.
“It’s something lacking in him--I don’t even believe that it’s his
fault. But it’s dreadful!”
“Poor little fellow! But indeed, if I may say so, I’m quite sure that
you’re taking it a great deal too seriously, Mrs. Aviolet. How old is
he?”
“Not quite eight.”
“Why, he’s only a baby. You know they say that the age of reason is
seven years old, not before. You’ll have broken him of his bad habit
long before he has to go to school.”
“If I thought it was only a bad habit--I can’t explain properly, but
it seems to me more than that. I can’t get anybody to understand what
I mean,” she said confusedly. “It’s like a sort of kink in his mind.
And while that’s there, I don’t think he’s fit for school--not any more
than if he was physically deformed. They won’t understand him there--I
know they won’t.”
“Masters are necessarily men with a wide experience, you know. They are
accustomed to deal with every type of boy, after all. Perhaps they may
be more understanding than you imagine.”
“Then you think Cecil ought to go to school? You won’t speak to Ford
about it?”
There was a sound of pitiful disappointment in her voice. Charlesbury,
loyal to the traditions of his caste, yet spoke with quick and sincere
compassion.
“Don’t--don’t think that I can’t sympathize with you. I can and do,
intensely. Only forgive me if I ask whether you quite realize what a
frightful handicap it is for any boy, any English boy, to miss that
magnificent public-school training of ours? It’s like nothing else, you
know--I mean, there’s no substitute.”
“I suppose not. Most of the men I’ve known haven’t been public-school
boys, except, of course, my husband.”
The silence that fell between them made rather too clear their
mutual conviction that Jim Aviolet, at least, had been a singularly
unfavourable advertisement for the system of education that had
produced him.
“What did Jim want, himself, for the boy?”
“I don’t know. He talked about Sir Thomas perhaps offering to pay for
his education, but I don’t think he really expected it. In fact I
don’t suppose they’d have done it, if Jim had lived. They were pretty
well fed up with him,” said Mrs. Aviolet, with her usual inexorable
determination that spades should be spades. “Tell me, did Ford hate
poor old Jim?”
“They were on very unfriendly terms,” said Lord Charlesbury. “I am
afraid there was much jealousy between them. It was never a happy
relation.”
“I daresay that’s one reason why Ford is so beastly to me. He always
is, you know. He sneers at me, and if I make mistakes--well, _when_ I
made mistakes, I suppose I ought to say--he always tries to make it out
worse than it is. Oh, he’s hateful!”
“Ford Aviolet always strikes me as a disappointed man,” Lord
Charlesbury said reflectively. “He has always just missed things.
Although he was not brought up in an intellectual _milieu_, by any
means, he has only just missed being a very clever man. And he has
missed a certain popularity that Jim, if I may say so, always obtained
whenever he chose to ask for it--especially amongst women. I sometimes
think that Ford has resented that. He did well in South Africa,
too, but somehow he was passed over, when it came to promotion or
decorations. One affects not to care about these things, but I don’t
know--I don’t know.”
“I can’t feel a bit sorry for him,” Rose declared. “He’s somehow too
contemptuous to seem like a person who has, as you say, just failed.
Why doesn’t he marry, and have a son, and then they wouldn’t bother so
much about my Cecil.”
Charlesbury turned upon her a gaze that, for all its kindliness, was
exceedingly penetrating.
“Do you really wish that?”
She stared back at him.
“Of course. Oh, I see what you mean! But I should hate to think that
Cecil would ever have Squires, and be obliged to live there, and do
just what the other Aviolets have done before him. I’d rather he made a
life for himself.”
“Well done!” He laughed softly.
“Are you laughing at me?” said Rose, offended.
“Indeed I’m not--or only in the way one is allowed to laugh, between
friends. I hope you and I are to be friends?”
“Yes,” Rose said directly. “I’d like to be. I haven’t found anybody, in
England, that I wanted to be friends with--except Dr. Lucian and his
sister. They’ve been very kind to me. As for that Diana creature, that
they all talk of as if she was so wonderful, I think she’s too deadly
for words. Quite nice, you know, but dull, and extraordinarily stupid.”
Lord Charlesbury carefully displaced his eyeglass before speaking,
polished it with a silk handkerchief, and then replaced it.
“As I am to have the pleasure of your friendship, will you allow me to
say something very frankly?”
“Yes,” said Rose, wide-eyed.
“I want you to let me have the honour of being the only person to whom
you express yourself so very outspokenly about people whom you don’t
like. It would be--well, at least unwise, to give your opinion of
Diana Grierson-Amberly in quite those words, to someone who might very
possibly resent them. You see, English society is quite a small clan,
really, isn’t it? And perhaps especially so in the country. It’s a pity
to make enemies, after all.”
“Oh!”
“You forgive me for talking like a prig? I’m so much older than you
are, and, if you’ll let me say it, so much interested--and so sorry for
you.”
“You may well be that,” said Rose Aviolet, with tears in her eyes. “I
seem to be always making a fool of myself--if it isn’t one thing, it’s
another. But I don’t mind being told by you, because you’re so kind.
I’ll try and remember what you said about talking about people.”
“That will be very nice of you. Perhaps you’ll take me for another
walk, some day. I should like it very much if you would.”
“I’d like it, too,” said Rose. “You aren’t going away for a few days,
are you?”
“I’m afraid I must be off to-morrow. My boy will be home, and I don’t
want to miss too much of his holidays. He and I are very great friends,
I’m glad to say.”
“Is he like you?”
“No, I don’t think so. One of these days I hope you’ll see him, Mrs.
Aviolet. I should like you to bring Cecil over to Charlesbury, and let
the two little lads make friends.”
“Thank you very much. I often wish Ces had more to do with other
children. I think it would be good for him.”
“One does feel that, with an only child. Hugh has improved in every
possible way since he’s been with other boys.”
“At school, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Rose received the reply in silence. She was far too grateful for
Charlesbury’s evident liking and sympathy for herself to retort with
her habitual assertion that generalities which might apply to other
children did not apply to Cecil. Moreover, her shrewdness had quite
well perceived that Lord Charlesbury had avoided committing himself to
any promise of interference between herself and Ford. After all, he
was Ford’s friend, Rose reflected, liking him none the less on that
account, although still marvelling somewhat that it should be so.
She was sorry when they came into the home farm and her walk with
Charlesbury was over.
The men, spread out in a thin line, began to walk up the steep slope of
the first field, Diana Grierson-Amberly walking beside Ford, looking
very trim and efficient in her short, brown tweed coat and skirt and
close-fitting hat.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to walk with them, Rose?” her
mother-in-law asked her, from the pony-carriage in the lane.
“Quite sure, thank you,” Rose said, shuddering, and as a bird rose
suddenly and the first shot went off, she uttered a loud and startling
scream.
Ford’s head was turned, for a searing moment, in her direction.
“Get in quickly,” said Lady Aviolet.
Her tone was one of forbearance.
“Where’s Ces?”
“He is walking home with Miss Wade. I hope you don’t think it will be
too far for him?”
“Oh, no, it won’t hurt him.”
They often deferred thus, politely, to one another’s judgment in
matters concerning Cecil, Lady Aviolet from a conscientious desire
to respect the rights of motherhood, and Rose from some strange,
elementary idea of diplomacy.
“Laurence Charlesbury is a particularly charming person, don’t you
think?”
“Yes, I do.” Rose’s reply was emphatic, after her fashion.
“We have known him for many years, and I am particularly fond of him.”
“What was his wife like?”
“She had a good deal of foreign blood in her, I believe, but otherwise
she was delightful. She was only twenty-four when she died. Such a
pretty creature, too.”
“What was her name?” Rose asked abruptly. She was conscious of an
impelling curiosity.
“Mona le Breton. Her father was the well-known polo-player, you know.”
Rose, of course, did not know, and was a good deal more interested in
trying to obtain some glimpse of the personality that had lain behind
the romantic name.
Lady Aviolet, however, possessed no talent for transmitting such
impressions.
“They were only married two years. She died when her baby was born,
poor thing!”
“Were they very happy together?”
“I believe it was a very happy marriage. He was devoted to her, poor
man. Everyone thought he was sure to marry again, if only for the poor
little boy’s sake, but he has never shown any signs of doing so.”
“It must have been dreadful for him, losing her. What was she _like_?”
“She was very pretty,” repeated Lady Aviolet, a little helplessly.
“Tall and slim, with brown, curly hair and very dark blue eyes. Quite
an unusual type, in fact.”
“What else?”
“How do you mean, my dear? She wasn’t clever, or anything like that, so
far as I know. Lady Cowderham was her aunt, and used to take her about
before she married. She was the same age as Lady Cowderham’s own girl,
who afterwards married one of the Troyles of Lawley--the second son, I
think it was.”
They had got back to names and categories again. Rose ceased to feel
any interest in what her companion was saying, and therefore, after her
wont, ceased to pay any attention to it. Lady Aviolet, naturally, was
not thereby encouraged to proceed with her observations and they drove
on for a time in silence.
Rose felt pleased and excited by the idea of her friendship with
Laurence Charlesbury. She found him attractive, and she had been long
enough removed from admiration to welcome it with passionate eagerness.
She heartily wished that Lord Charlesbury were not going away on the
morrow, to leave Squires once more intolerable to her.
“Is Lord Charlesbury _obliged_ to go away to-morrow?” she suddenly
demanded with great abruptness.
“I suppose so. It’s certainly a pity, but I hope we shall see him again
one of these days. He generally comes over once or twice every year.”
“It’s been a very short visit,” said Rose disconsolately.
“It’s not been like a regular shooting-party at all, I’m afraid, my
dear. Another year we shall do rather more entertaining, I hope, but,
naturally, it was out of the question for us all, just now. However,
Diana is staying on for a day or two, I’m glad to say. She’s always so
bright.”
“Is she?” said Rose, and then remembered her conversation with
Charlesbury, and added in a determined sort of way: “She’s nice and
_willing_, isn’t she? Does she enjoy herself a lot in London?”
“Her mother is very strict about only allowing her a certain number of
late nights in the week. But she has a good deal of going out, on the
whole, and I’m told that she is a great success everywhere. Men always
like her so much.”
Rose felt very much surprised to hear it, but hoped that her
silence might be taken as a tribute to the indisputability of Miss
Grierson-Amberly’s charms.
“I hope you and she will make friends, my dear. I feel that you have
very little companionship of your own age, amongst us all.”
Rose was acutely touched, as she always was by any kindness.
“It is very good of you. I’m afraid you think I’m an ungrateful pig,
sometimes----”
Alarm was latent in Lady Aviolet’s grey, obtuse eyes. It crept
there, slowly, because all her reactions were slow, but always quite
unmistakably, at the introduction of a personal note in conversation.
Emotional outbursts, such as Rose was addicted to, she very evidently
viewed as indiscretions that only too surely classified their
perpetrators.
“My dear--please.... Hark! Can you hear the guns? They must be doing
very well.”
“Damn the guns,” said Rose without malice, only resenting her rebuff.
Lady Aviolet slightly drew down her already lengthy upper lip and said
nothing whatever.
“I didn’t mean it! It was frightfully rude of me--please forgive me!”
“Don’t, my dear, don’t upset yourself, please. That expression doesn’t
sound nice on any one’s lips, but especially not on those of a woman.
The use of it is a bad habit, and I’m told it’s very much on the
increase--a pity, I think. One knows that no irreverence is intended,
but one dislikes hearing such a word at all.”
The fastidious distaste in the elder lady’s voice was quite impersonal,
and caused Rose to feel herself relegated to some more than ever remote
distance from the world in which the Aviolet standards prevailed.
Her mother-in-law, with deliberate obviousness, changed the subject.
“Ford has probably told you that he is going to talk to Laurence
Charlesbury about Hurst, Hugh’s preparatory school. He thinks it might
do very well for Cecil, and it would be nice to feel that the little
chap would find a friend there. Hugh is a particularly nice boy.”
“And where do I come in?”
Lady Aviolet looked her interrogation at the truculence that had
suddenly sprung into Rose’s voice.
“Ford this, and Ford that. Ces is _my_ kid, and I think I ought to be
consulted, if there’s going to be talk about where he’s going to, and
all the rest of it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, my dear. Ford will talk it all over with
you before anything is settled, naturally. Here we are! Now do go and
rest quietly in your own room till tea-time. I’m sure you’re tired.”
Rose understood only too well that this forbearing epithet was applied
to what she herself ruefully stigmatized as her own crossness. She felt
herself, indeed, to be in a strangely restless mood, and disinclined
in the extreme to follow Lady Aviolet’s advice and rest.
Instead, she threw off her hat, with its detested little black veil,
the moment she reached her room, and stared earnestly at herself in the
glass.
Even to her own perceptions, it was an innocent, almost child-like face
that gazed back at her, in spite of her big frame and the very patent
artificial colour on her full lips.
“I certainly don’t look twenty-five,” she reflected with satisfaction.
Her yellow hair fell in loose strands across her forehead and temples,
and she pushed it back impatiently. That unusual corn-colour was an
asset, especially with brown eyes and dark lashes, but she had always
longed for curly hair. To-day, she thought that she would like to have
had brown curly hair, and dark blue eyes, and to have been slim, as
well as tall.
“I bet I weigh all of eleven stone,” she murmured disgustedly, her eyes
travelling across the square breadth of her fine shoulders and the
deep, full curves of her breast.
“And my weight’ll go up every day in this place, with the meals they
have and never anything to do worth doing!”
She revolved in her own mind, as often before, foolish and unpractical
plans for maintaining herself and Cecil independently of Aviolet
assistance. But she knew too much of poverty to take her own flights of
fancy seriously. Cecil should have all that the Aviolets could give him.
She held, however, the gifts of their bestowal to be confined within
the limits of the material. For the things of the spirit, she was
convinced that Cecil had only herself to look to, and the thought added
weight to her blind determination of trusting to her own instinct
rather than to Ford’s specious logic.
“Perhaps, after all, Lord Charlesbury will say something to Ford,” she
thought. “I believe he’d help me if he could.”
The dimple deepened at the corner of her mouth and she smiled, with a
curious pleasure at the thought.
Lord Charlesbury did not tell her whether he had spoken to Ford, but
he talked to her most of the evening, and the exhilarating conviction
of his liking increased in her. She even became rather exuberant in
her triumphant consciousness of success, and her manner to Diana
Grierson-Amberly took on an unconstraint that hitherto she had been
unable to afford.
But at the foot of the stairs, when Charlesbury handed her a lighted
candle, he said: “Good-night, and good-bye, I’m afraid. I shall be off
early to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, I _am_ sorry.”
He smiled at her.
“So am I. You won’t forget that you’re coming to visit Charlesbury and
bringing the boy?”
“Oh, no, I shan’t forget,” she assured him seriously.
Shaking hands, he detained hers in his for a moment before releasing
it.