Herrick duly sent Toni a list of such books as he thought suitable for
her purpose; and then began for Toni a succession of long and, if the
truth be told, tedious days spent, in Owen's absence, in the quiet,
stately library, while the August sunshine streamed in through the big
mullioned windows, and turned the books, in their many-hued bindings,
into pools of rich, dim colour, lighted here and there with the flash of
gold, the gleam of purple and scarlet.
Toni used to wish, half-rebelliously, that the sun would not shine in so
gloriously, turning the polished floor into a golden sea, and bathing
her, as she sat at the table, in a flood of dancing sunbeams.
It was so hard to sit there reading, trying in vain to dig out the heart
of some book of old stories, sagas and the like, or struggling
helplessly to understand a poem written in lovely but surely
incomprehensible metaphors, and full of words which, though she realized
their beauty, still conveyed little to her intelligence.
Herrick had perhaps slightly over-estimated her powers. He had never
before come in contact with quite such an undeveloped mind. His own
married life had been too short for him to grasp fully the
characteristics of his wife, and although in some respects she had not
been unlike Toni, she had been differently educated. Her mind had
perhaps little depth, but she was quick and versatile; and owing to her
surroundings she had been able, always, to adopt the shibboleth of the
social set to which she belonged by right of birth.
So it was that Herrick, with all his sympathy, all his intuition, failed
to plumb the shallows of Toni's mind. He gave her Rossetti when he
should have given her Ella Wheeler Wilcox; and George Eliot when he
should have introduced her to Jane Austen and her gentle sister, Miss
Burney. The "Idylls of the King," clothed in Tennyson's poetic garments,
would have won her interest--instead he advised her to read Malory, and
read him she obediently did, until her brain ached with the clash of
swords, and her eyes were wearied with the glitter of the dragons'
scales or the silver mail of the knights who fought to the death for the
damsels they served.
Knowing her love of outdoor life, he sent her to Borrow, but even
"Lavengro" failed to charm the lonely student, to whom the sun, the
moon, the stars were all "sweet things" indeed, when no printed page
intervened between her and their sweetness.
It was weary work, toiling there day after day, while the river flashed
and gleamed in the sunlight, and Jock ran barking hither and thither
under the windows, as though imploring her to leave those musty haunts
and come to chase the elusive yellow sunbeams on the lawn.
At first she had been used to take the big, high-backed chair at the
head of the table, and spreading out her books, refuse to cast so much
as a look at the sunny world without; but after four or five mornings so
spent she gave in suddenly and betook herself to the little table in the
window, where from her seat she could watch the tall white lilies
swaying in the breeze, or catch the fragrance of the mauve and scarlet
sweet-peas which climbed their hedge just out of sight.
It was weary work, and Toni's eyes and head ached when the luncheon-bell
rang to set her free from her self-imposed task; but she did not give
in, and after her hasty meal she would return to the library and
struggle till tea-time with half a dozen French exercises, which by the
aid of a key she sternly corrected when finished.
When Owen arrived home, shortly before dinner, Toni was worn out with
the combined effects of her mental exertions and her lack of fresh air;
but Owen, who was turning over in his mind the material for a novel, was
not in a mood to notice her unwonted silence, and was relieved when,
after dinner, she went early to bed and set him free to spend the
evening in his sanctum, making notes and generally planning out the book
he felt he could write.
To the novelist there comes, at the inception of a book, a period in
which the things and people around him recede into the background before
the people and things he seeks to create; and it is scarcely to be
wondered at if at these times the writer's vision, which is turned, so
to speak, inward, fails to realize the significance of the scenes being
enacted beneath his mortal eyes.
And it was so with Owen. During that strenuous fortnight of Toni's
laborious study, Owen was so fully occupied with the visions of his
brain that he had little time to spare for the flesh and blood inmate of
his home; and though he was always kind to Toni, he did not notice that
the laughter was absent from her lips, the joyful light of happiness
quenched in her eyes.
The idea of his book was beginning to absorb him very thoroughly.
Hitherto he had never had the time to devote to purely imaginative work;
but now that the _Bridge_ was going ahead and his series of articles for
outside papers was finished, he felt the call of fiction very strongly.
His story was concerned with the conflict between East and West, with
the life of an Indian prince who, after his English education, was
called upon to rule his dead father's kingdom; and Owen's impressions of
India, gathered during a stay of some months in that magic land, formed
a brilliant setting for the half-political, half-romantic story he had
to tell.
Barry, who was, of course, in the secret, was intensely interested in
this new departure; and had no doubt whatever as to the certainty of
Owen's success. Indeed Owen himself was surprised at the ease with which
he did work he felt to be good. By nature a critic, he would have been
the first to detect signs of carelessness, of over-fluency even in his
own writing; but the narrative, with its felicitous turns of expression,
its lucid, clear-cut phrases, slipped naturally from his pen; and he
felt to the full the truth of Stevenson's couplet:
"Bright is the ring of words
When the right man rings them."
One afternoon Owen invited Barry to motor down and dine with them at
Greenriver; and Barry accepted the invitation with alacrity, for he had
not seen Toni for some weeks and was anxious to know how life was
treating her.
He hurried over his work for the afternoon, and Miss Loder, the
secretary whose services he and Owen shared in common, was secretly
surprised, not to say shocked, by his flippant behaviour over a
monograph supplied by a valued contributor.
"It's a bit stodgy, eh, Miss Loder? You can feel the ecclesiastical hand
upon the pen-holder, can't you?"
Miss Loder was the daughter of a clergyman, whose large family had all
been educated with a view to doing some sort of work in the world, and
as was only natural she resented the implied censure on the Church.
"If purity of English and clarity of thought are stodgy, Mr. Raymond, I
suppose you are right. But what a treat this is after the article of
young Bright's! That was hardly in keeping with the tone of the
_Bridge_, if you like!"
"Young Bright's article--why, Miss Loder, it was a gem! It was whimsical
in tone, I grant you, perhaps here and there a trifle frivolous, but it
was splendid in its way. It simply sparkled with wit and a kind of
delicate satire."
"You thought so? I'm afraid I didn't." Miss Loder, who at Cambridge had
been known as an excellent debater, closed the subject by her tone; and
Barry smiled quietly at her self-sufficiency.
Truth to tell, he had never much liked Miss Loder. While admitting her
absolute competency for the post--for she was in her way a brilliant
young woman--he found her unsympathetic, narrow-minded, wedded to her
own standards of thought and behaviour; and he was wont to assert that
her clear grey eye struck terror to his soul.
Miss Loder had been intended for a scholastic career: but although she
had passed through her College life with distinction, she found that
after all teaching was not her vocation.
She was absolutely devoid of patience, and wanting in the tact, the
kindly firmness, the warm sympathy, which go to equip the perfect
teacher; and although she might have a subject at her very finger-tips,
so to speak, she found it almost impossible to hand on her knowledge so
that her class might share it with her.
Once she realized the fact, Miss Loder very wisely withdrew from the
field in which she was unable to shine; and since the death of her
father had rendered it imperative that she find some remunerative work
without delay, she was glad to accept the post which Owen offered her
through a mutual friend.
Having once intended to take up journalism, she was conversant with the
mysteries of typewriting and shorthand, and her excellent classical
education rendered her particularly fitted for the post of secretary to
the editor of the _Bridge_ and his coadjutor, Barry Raymond. Her own
literary taste was admirable, if a trifle academic; and Owen found her a
really useful person with whom to discuss the various departments of his
beloved review.
In appearance, Miss Loder was of middle height, with good features, grey
eyes of an almost disconcerting frankness, and fair hair which she
parted on her forehead and coiled neatly round her head. She was
twenty-nine years of age, but looked younger; and she generally wore a
well-cut grey skirt and severely plain white shirt, which somehow suited
her rather boyish appearance.
At five o'clock on this particular afternoon Barry bade her good-day,
and joined Owen in the street outside the office, where the big motor
stood throbbing impatiently beneath its owner's hand.
"Jump in, Barry. If we have a good run we might take Toni on the river
for an hour. Poor little girl, I'm afraid I've rather neglected her
lately."
Barry took his seat, and under Owen's skilful guidance they were soon
out of the City tumult, speeding smoothly away in the direction of
Richmond.
It was just beyond Staines that the accident happened.
Through no fault of his own Owen collided with a badly-steered motor
negotiating a sharp bend; and though no one else was injured it was
discovered, after all was over, that Owen had sustained a fracture of
the right arm.
The owner of the other car, who was only too palpably a novice in the
art of driving, confounded himself in apologies. He was indeed so
manifestly upset and distressed to find what his carelessness had done,
that in the midst of his own natural annoyance Owen found time to assure
him of his complete forgiveness; and the irony of the situation was made
evident when it leaked out that the offender was a surgeon, resident in
the district, who practised the art of motoring in his spare moments.
He insisted on Owen returning with him to receive all the care and
attention his medical skill could supply; and thus it was that when the
car, driven by Barry, finally drew up in front of the hall door of
Greenriver, Toni, running down the steps to greet her husband and his
visitor, was startled to observe Owen, a trifle pale, descend from the
car with his right arm supported in a black silk sling.
"Owen!" Every vestige of colour died out of Toni's face. "What has
happened? You've had an accident!"
"Nothing much, dear!" He spoke reassuringly. "Collided with another car
outside Staines, and I've broken my stupid arm. But that's all."
"Quite enough," struck in Barry, smiling. "No one else was hurt, Mrs.
Rose--not even the old idiot who was to blame."
"It's nearly dinner-time, I suppose," said Owen, looking up at the hall
clock. "We started early to take you on the river, Toni, but I'm afraid
it's too late now."
"And you're disabled," said Barry. "You'll be dependent on our good
offices for your dinner; won't he, Mrs. Rose?"
And so it proved, for like a good many people Owen felt utterly at a
loss with only one available hand. To Toni fell the task of cutting up
his food, and her big eyes grew anxious as she noted his lack of
appetite.
As a matter of fact Owen felt disinclined for food, for anything but
solitude and rest. His head was aching, and his arm was beginning to
pain him so severely that he feared sleep would be out of the question.
After dinner he yielded to the joint entreaties of Toni and Barry and
went to bed; leaving his wife to entertain his guest until the car
should come round to take him to the station.
The evening had closed in with rain, and the two sat by one of the
widely-opened windows in the drawing-room, looking out into the dusky
garden, and listening to the soft patter of the rain on the foliage
bordering the lawn. There was no wind, and against the cloudy sky the
tall trees stood like black giants holding out immovable arms, while
from the flowers, refreshed by the shower after their hot, thirsty day,
a grateful fragrance rose to sweeten the damp, cool air.
For some time Barry and his hostess sat in silence. Toni had taken her
favourite low chair, and her hands lay idly in her lap, the wedding-ring
which was their sole ornament gleaming in the lamplight. To Barry's eyes
her youthful prettiness had a slightly dimmed effect. Without losing
anything of its virginal purity of outline there was a hint of
weariness, of almost jaded fatigue, which startled Barry. He thought
always of Toni as some joyous woodland nymph, a pagan it might be, a
hedonist by nature and training; and while he had regretted, formerly,
her lack of worldly and womanly experience, it gave him something of a
pang at heart to find that this little pagan creature, this pretty,
wild, untutored Undine could apparently lose, for the moment at least,
her joy in the "sweet things" of life. That in the process she might be
slowly and painfully realizing her soul he did not stop to think. To him
the fatigue in her face was pathetic; to Herrick it would have been
enlightening.
"Mr. Raymond----" Toni spoke at last, and he threw off his absorption to
listen. "If Owen's arm is broken, how will he do his work?"
"That is just what I've been wondering," said Barry. "Of course the
ordinary office work, the work of the _Bridge_, will go on all right
without him for a bit. I mean--well, you see I can look after things
pretty well, and we have an excellent secretary in Miss Loder."
"But his own work? He is writing a book--a novel, isn't he? He said
something about it--though he hasn't read any of it to me," added Toni
rather wistfully.
"I don't suppose he's got very far," said Barry, wondering whether she
felt slighted by the omission. "Owen is a quick worker, I know, but he
has only been at it for a week or two."
"Oh, I know," she replied hastily. "But how will he go on with it? He
can't write with his left hand, can he?"
"Not very well." An idea struck Barry, and without stopping to think he
gave it utterance. "Look here, Mrs. Rose, you can help Owen no end! You
must take it down for him. You could easily scribble it off and then
type it out afterwards, couldn't you?"
Into Toni's eyes flashed a light of pure joy.
"Oh, do you think I could! I'd do anything--anything to help Owen," she
said eagerly. "It wouldn't be like his articles, full of quotations and
things that want verifying, would it? I mean even a stupid girl--like
me--could do it, couldn't she?"
"You're not stupid," he rallied her gaily. "Look how quickly you learned
to read proof! And even the superior Miss Loder doesn't type as well as
you!"
"Doesn't she!" Toni's depression had vanished like magic, and her eyes
were sparkling as she looked at him. "Oh, if I could! But I don't
believe I dare offer, Mr. Raymond! Do you think if _you_ were to mention
it to Owen----"
"Oh, it would come much better from you!" Barry, whose interference on
the subject of Owen's marriage had not been too well received, shrank
from further officiousness. "If you propose it, I'm sure Owen will jump
at it; and he won't mind his enforced helplessness half so much if he
can get on with the book."
For a moment Toni said nothing.
The rain had ceased, and in the darkened sky one or two pale-gold stars
were gleaming. The air was full of sweet, moist scents; and a big white
owl flew by the window, looking weird and ghostly in the dusk. A moment
later they heard him hoot from his eyrie in one of the tall tree-tops,
and Toni shivered a little.
"I can't get used to their queer cries," she said in a low voice.
"Sometimes I hear them in the night, and they make me shudder. Owen
laughs at me, and quotes Shakespeare, about the owl and the baker's
daughter, but I hate them, all the same."
"I rather like them," said Barry lightly. "Anyway, you mustn't drive
them away; it's the very worst of luck to turn them out of their
accustomed dwelling-places!"
"Then, they'll have to stop, I suppose," said Toni practically. "But I
shall go on hating them all the same!"
Barry laughed and turned the conversation back to her proposed
collaboration with Owen; and Toni was only too eager to discuss the
subject, which lasted, indeed, until Barry said good-bye.
His last glimpse of her was as she stood on the steps calling out her
farewell; and he carried away a clearly-cut impression of the slight,
blue-robed figure, her black hair a little loosened round her eager,
vivid face, her eyes full of a new and ardent resolution, which had
quite banished the look of sadness and fatigue he had noticed earlier in
the evening.
It was evident his suggestion had fired her heart and mind, and for a
moment, as he was borne swiftly down the black avenue on to the high
road, Barry asked himself if he had done well to light that lamp of hope
and high desire in her soul.
If Owen should refuse her aid, if he should let her see that he had no
desire for help from her, no exportation of any adequate service, the
flame which Barry's words had lit would be cruelly extinguished, leaving
in its place only the blank and utter darkness of disillusionment.
And once removed from her beseeching presence, Barry wondered, rather
hopelessly, if indeed Toni's help would be of any value. She was ready,
eager indeed, to be of use; but was she capable of work such as Owen
would require?
Against his will Barry had a vision of Miss Loder in Toni's place--not
as wife, but as assistant--and he confessed to himself with a groan that
the highly-finished product of school and college would probably prove
herself of far more practical use than the impulsive, emotional, and
alas! unliterary Toni.
But the harm was done now. He had lighted the torch in Toni's soul, and
he could only hope that no adverse breath would blow to extinguish its
flame.