A LESSON IN BOTANY
John Steele was rather late in arriving at the house of Sir Charles Wray
in Piccadilly the following Thursday. But nearly every one else was
late, and, perhaps knowing the fashionable foible, he had purposely held
back to avoid making himself conspicuous by being prompt. The house, his
destination, was not unlike other dwellings on that historic
thoroughfare; externally it was as monotonous as the average London
mansion. The architect had disdained any attempt at ornamentation. As if
fearful of being accused of emulating his brother-in-art across the
channel, he had put up four walls and laid on a roof; he had given the
front wall a slightly outward curve. In so doing, he did not reason why;
he was merely following precedent that had created this incomprehensible
convexity.
But within, the mansion made a dignified and at the same time a pleasant
impression. John Steele, seated at the rear of a spacious room, where he
a few moments later found himself among a numerous company, looked
around on the old solid furnishings, the heavy rich curtains and those
other substantial appurtenances to a fine and stately town house. That
funereal atmosphere common to many homes of an ancient period was,
however, lacking. The observer felt as if some recent hand, the hand of
youth, had been busy hereabouts indulging in light touches that relieved
and gladdened the big room. Hues, soft and delicate, met the eye here
and there; rugs of fine pattern favored the glance, while tapestries of
French workmanship bade it wander amid scenes suggestive of Arcadia.
Many found these innovations to their liking; others frowned upon them;
but everybody flocked to the house.
The program on the present occasion included a poet and a woman
novelist. The former, a Preraphaelite, led his hearers through dim
mazes, Hyrcanian wilds. The novelist on the other hand was direct; in
following her there seemed no danger of losing the way. At the
conclusion of the program proper, an admirer of the poet asked if their
young hostess would not play a certain musical something, the theme of
one of the bard's effusions, and at once Jocelyn Wray complied. Lord
Ronsdale stood sedulously near, turning the leaves; Steele watched the
deft hand; it was slim, aristocratic and suggested possibilities in
legerdemain.
"An attractive-looking pair!" whispered a woman near John Steele to
another of her sex, during a louder passage in the number. "Are they--"
"I don't know; my dear. Perhaps. She's extremely well-off in this
world's goods, and he has large properties, but--a diminishing income."
She lowered her voice rather abruptly as the cadence came to a pause.
The music went on again to its appointed and spirited climax.
"Was formerly in the diplomatic service, I believe;"--the voice also
went on--"has strong political aspirations, and, with a wealthy and
clever wife--"
"A girl might do worse. He is both cold and capable--an ideal
combination for a political career--might become prime minister--with
the prestige of his family and hers to--"
John Steele stirred; the whispering ceased. My lord turned the last
page; the girl rose and bent for an instant her fair head. And as Steele
looked at her, again there came over him--this time, it may be, not
without a certain bitterness!--an impression of life and its
joys--spring-tide and sunshine, bright, remote!--so remote--for him--
A babel of voices replaced melody; the people got up. A number lingered;
many went, after speaking to their hostesses and Sir Charles. John
Steele, at the rear, looked at the door leading into the main hall
toward the young girl, then stepped across the soft rugs and spoke to
her. She answered in the customary manner and others approached. He was
about to draw back to leave, when--
"Oh, Mr. Steele," she said, "my uncle wishes to see you before you go.
He was saying he had some--"
"Quite right, my dear!" And Sir Charles, who had approached, took John
Steele's arm. "Some curious old law books I picked up to-day at a
bargain and want your opinion of!" he went on, leading the other into a
lofty and restful apartment adjoining, the library. Steele looked around
him; his gaze brightened as it rested on the imposing and finely bound
volumes.
"You have a superb collection of books," he observed with a sudden quick
look at his host.
"Yes; I rather pride myself on my library," said Sir Charles
complacently. "Lost a good many of the choicest though," he went on in
regretful tones, "some years ago, as I was returning to Australia. A
rare lot of law books, a library in themselves, as well as a large
collection of the classics, the world's poets and historians, went down
with the ill-fated _Lord Nelson_."
"Ah?" John Steele looked away. "A great mart, London, for fine
editions!" he said absently after a pause.
"It is. But here are those I spoke of." And Sir Charles indicated a
number of volumes on a large center table. John Steele handled them
thoughtfully and for some time his host ran on about them. A choice copy
of one of the Elizabethan poets, intruding itself in that august
company, then attracted Steele's attention; he picked it up, weighed and
caressed it with gentle fingers.
"Who shall measure the influence of--a little parcel like this?" he said
at length lightly.
"True." Sir Charles' eye caught the title. "As Portia says: 'It blesseth
him that gives and him that takes.' Excellent bit of binding that, too!
But," with new zest, "take any interest in rare books of the ring, full
of eighteenth century colored prints, and so on?"
"I can't say, at present, that the doings of the ring or the history of
pugilists attract me."
"That's because you've never seen an honest, hard-fought battle,
perhaps?"
"A flattering designation, I should say, of the spectacle of two brutes
disfiguring their already repulsive visages!"
"Two brutes?--disfiguring?"--the drawling voice of Lord Ronsdale who had
at that moment stepped in, inquired. "May I ask what the--talk is
about?"
Sir Charles turned. "Steele was differing from me about a good, old,
honest English sport."
"Sport?" Lord Ronsdale dropped into a chair and helped himself to whisky
and soda conveniently near.
"I refer to the ring--its traditions--its chronicles--"
"Ah!" The speaker raised his glass and looked at John Steele. The latter
was nonchalantly regarding the pages of a book he yet held; his face was
half-turned from the nobleman. The clear-cut, bold profile, the easy,
assured carriage, so suggestive of strength, seemed to attract, to
compel Lord Ronsdale's attention.
"For my part," went on Sir Charles in a somewhat disappointed tone, "I
am one who views with regret the decadence of a great national pastime."
He regarded Ronsdale; the latter set down his glass untasted. "My own
opinion," he said crisply; then his face changed; he looked toward the
door.
"Well, it's over!" the light tones of Jocelyn Wray interrupted; the girl
stood on the threshold, glancing gaily from one to the other. "Did you
tell my uncle, Mr. Steele, what you thought of his purchase? I see,
while on his favorite subject, he has forgotten to offer you a cigar."
Sir Charles hastened to repair his remissness.
"But how," she went on, "did it go? The program, I mean. Have you
forgiven me yet for asking you to come, Mr. Steele?"
"Forgiven?" he repeated. Lord Ronsdale's eyes narrowed on them.
"Confess," she continued, sinking to the arm of a great chair, "you had
your misgivings?"
He regarded the supple, slender figure, so airily poised. As she bent
forward, he noticed in her hair several flowers shaped like primroses,
but light crimson in hue. "What misgivings was it possible to have?" he
replied.
"Oh," she replied, "the usual masculine ones! Misgivings, for example,
about stepping out of the routine. Routine that makes slaves of men!"
with an accent slightly mocking. "And stepping into what? Society! The
bugbear of so many men! Poor Society! What flings it has to endure! By
the way, did your convict get off?"
"Get off? What--"
"The one you represented--is that the word?--when we were in court."
"Yes; he was acquitted."
"I am glad; somehow you made me feel he was innocent."
"I believed in him," said John Steele.
"And yet the evidence was very strong against him! If some one else had
appeared for him--Do you think many innocent people have been--hanged,
or sent out of the country, Mr. Steele?" Her eyes looked brighter, her
face more earnest now.
"Evidence can play odd caprices."
"Still, your average English juryman is to be depended on!" put in Lord
Ronsdale quickly.
"Do you think so?" An instant Steele's eyes rested on the speaker. "No
doubt you are right." A sardonic flash seemed to play on the nobleman.
"At all events you voice the accepted belief."
"I'm glad you defend, don't prosecute people, Mr. Steele," said the girl
irrelevantly.
"A pleasanter task, perhaps!"
"Speaking of sending prisoners out of the country," broke in Sir
Charles, "I am not in favor of the penal system myself."
"Rather a simple way of getting rid of undesirables--transportation--it
has always seemed to me," dissented Lord Ronsdale.
"Don't they sometimes escape and come back to England?" asked the girl.
"Not apt to, when death for returning stares them in the face," remarked
the nobleman.
"Death!" The girl shivered slightly.
John Steele smiled. "The penalty should certainly prove efficacious," he
observed lightly.
"Is not such a penalty--for returning, I mean--very severe, Mr. Steele?"
asked Jocelyn Wray.
"That," he laughed, "depends somewhat on the point of view, the
criminal's, or society's!" His gaze returned to her; the bright bit of
color in her hair again seemed to catch and hold his glance. "But," with
a sudden change of tone, "will you explain something to me, Miss Wray?
Those flowers you wear--surely they are primroses, and yet--"
"Crimson," said the girl. "You find that strange. It is very simple. If
you will come with me a moment." She rose, quickly crossed the room to a
door at the back, and Steele, following, found himself in a large
conservatory that looked out upon an agreeable, if rather restricted,
prospect of green garden. Several of the windows of the glass addition
were open and the warm sunshine and air entered. A butterfly was
fluttering within; in a corner, a bee busied himself buzzing loudly
between flowers and sips of saccharine sweetness. Jocelyn Wray stepped
in its direction, stooped. The sunlight touched the white neck, where
spirals of gold nestled, and fell over her gown in soft, shifting waves.
"You see?" She threw over her shoulder a glance at him; he looked down
at primroses, pale yellow; a few near-by were half-red, or spotted with
crimson; others, still, were the color of those that nodded in her hair.
"You can imagine how it has come about?"
He regarded a great bunch of clustering red roses--the winged marauder
hovering noisily over. "I think I can guess. The bees have carried the
hue of the roses to them."
"Hue!" cried the girl, with light scorn. "What a prosaic way to express
it! Say the soul, the heart's blood. Some of the primroses have yielded
only a little; others have been transformed."
"You think, then, some flowers may be much influenced by others?"
"They can't help it," she answered confidently.
"Just as some people," he said in a low tone, "can't help taking into
their lives some beautiful hue born of mere casual contact with some
one, some time."
"What a poetical sentiment!" she laughed. "Really, it deserves a
reward." As he spoke, she plucked a few flowers and held them out in her
palm to him; he regarded her merry eyes, the bright tints.
Erect, with well-assured poise, she looked at him; he took one of the
flowers, gazed at it, a tiny thing in his own great palm, a tiny, red
thing, like a jewel in hue--that reminded him of--what? As through a
mist he saw a spark--where?
"Only one?" she said in the same tone. "You are modest. And you don't
even condescend to put it in your coat?"
He did so; in his gaze was a sudden new expression, something so
compelling, so different, it held her, almost against her will. He
seemed to see her and yet not fully to be aware of her presence; she
drew back slightly. The girl's crimson lips parted as with a suspicion
of faint wonder; the blue eyes, just a little soberer, were, also, in
the least degree, perplexed. The man's breast suddenly stirred; a
breath--or was it the merest suggestion of a sigh?--escaped the firm
lips. He looked out of the window at the garden, conventional, the
arrangement of lines one expected.
When his look returned to her it was the same he had worn when he had
first stepped forward to speak with her that afternoon.
"Thank you for the lesson in botany, Miss Wray!" he said easily. "I
shall not forget it."
The other primroses fell from her fingers; with a response equally
careless if somewhat reserved, she turned and reëntered the library.
Lord Ronsdale regarded both quickly; then started, as he caught sight of
the flower in John Steele's coat. A frown crossed his face and he looked
away to conceal the singularly cold and vindictive gleam that sprang to
his eyes.
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