"Then you really don't intend to marry me, Wilfrid?"
"The honour of being your husband, Tibbie, I must respectfully decline,"
I said.
"But I'd make you a very quiet, sociable wife, you know. I can ride to
hounds, cook, sew clothes for old people, and drive a motor. What
higher qualifications do you want?"
"Well--love, for instance."
"Ah! That's what I'm afraid I don't possess, any more them you do," she
laughed. "It isn't a family characteristic. With us, it's everyone for
herself," and she beat a tattoo upon the window-pane with the tips of
her slim, white fingers.
"I know," I said, smiling. "We are old friends enough to speak quite
frankly, aren't we?"
"Of course. That's why I asked you `your intentions'--as the mater
calls them. But it seems that you haven't any."
"Not in your direction, Tibbie."
"And yet you told me you loved me!" said the pretty woman at my side in
mock reproach, pouting her lips.
"Let's see--how long ago was that? You were thirteen, I think, and I
was still at Eton--eh?"
"I was very fond of you," she declared. "Indeed, I like you now. Don't
you remember those big boxes of sweets you used to smuggle in to me, and
how we used to meet in secret and walk down by the river in the evening?
Those were really very happy days, Wilfrid," and she sighed at the
memory of our youthful love.
We were standing together in the sunset at one of the old diamond-paned
windows of the Long Gallery at Ryhall Place, the ancient home of the
Scarcliffs in Sussex, gazing away over the broad park which stretched as
far as the eye could reach, its fine old avenue of beeches running in a
straight line to East Marden village, and the Chichester high road.
My companion, the Honourable Eva Sybil Burnet, third daughter of the
late Viscount Scarcliff, was known to her intimates as "Tibbie," because
as a child she so pronounced her Christian name. In the smart set in
London and at country houses she was well known as the prettiest of a
handsome trio, the other two sisters being Cynthia, who married Lord
Wydcombe, and Violet, who a year ago became Countess of Alderholt.
Young Lady Wydcombe, who was perhaps one of the smartest women in town,
noted for her dinners and her bridge parties in Curzon Street, and her
smart house parties up in Durham, had unfortunately taken Tibbie under
her care after she had come out, with the result that although unmarried
she had prematurely developed into one of the most _blase_ and go-ahead
women in town. The gossips talked of her, but the scandal was invented
by her enemies.
The country people whispered strange things of "Miss Sybil" and her
whims and fancies. The family had been known as "the reckless Burnets"
ever since the Georgian days, when the sixth Viscount had, in one night
at Crockford's, gambled away the whole of his vast Yorkshire estate, and
his son on the following night lost forty-five thousand guineas at the
same table. Dare-devilry ran in the Scarcliff blood. From the Wars of
the Roses down to the present day the men had always been fearless
soldiers--for some of their armour, and that of their retainers, still
stood in long, grim rows in the dark-panelled gallery where we were--and
the women had always been notable for their beauty, as proved by the
famous portraits by Gainsborough, Lawrence, Lely, Reynolds, Hoppner, and
others, that hung in the splendid gallery beyond.
But surely none of those time-mellowed portraits that I could see from
where I stood was half so beautiful as the little friend of my youth
beside me. In those long-past days of our boy-and-girl affection she
had been very fragile and very beautiful, with wondrous hair of that
unusual gold-brown tint, and eyes of clear bright blue. But even now,
at twenty-three, she had in no way lost her almost child-like grace and
charm. Those deep blue eyes, turned upon me in mock reproach, were
still fathomless, her cheeks were perfect in their symmetry, her mouth
smiling and sweet, and her brows well arched and well defined, while her
chin, slightly protruding, gave her that piquant air that was so
delightful.
Though unmarried, she was entirely unconventional, just as the
Scarcliffs had ever been. Smart London knew Tibbie well. Some day she
would many, people said, but the wiseacres shook their heads and
secretly pitied the man who became her husband.
As a friend Tibbie was perfect. She was a man's woman. She could shoot
or fish, she would play bridge and pay up honourably, she rode well, and
she drove her 60 h.p. "Mercedes" better even than her own chauffeur.
Old Lady Scarcliff--a delightful old person--had long ago given her up
as hopeless. It was all Cynthia's doing, for, truth to tell, her
extravagances and her utter disregard for the _convenances_ were the
outcome of her residence with the Wydcombes.
I own frankly that I was sorry to see this change in her. The slim,
rather prudish little love of my youth had now developed into that
loud-speaking, reckless type of smart woman who nowadays is so much in
evidence in Society. I much preferred her as I had known her years ago
when my father and hers were intimate friends, and when I came so often
to stay at Ryhall. True, our friendship had been a firm one always, but
alas! I now detected a great change in her. Though so handsome, she
was, as I had so very frankly told her, not exactly the kind of woman I
should choose as a wife. And yet, after all, when I reflected I often
thought her very sweet and womanly at home in the family circle.
My visit to Ryhall was to end on the morrow, and she had promised to
drive me up to town on her car.
The men of the party had not yet returned from shooting, and in that
calm sunset hour we were alone in the fine old gallery, with its
splendid tapestries, its old carved coffers and straight-backed chairs,
its rows of antlers and its armour of the dead-and-gone Scarcliffs.
High in the long windows were the rose en soleil of Edward IV, the crown
in the hawthorn bush of Henry VII, the wolf's head crowned, the badge of
the Scarcliffs, and other armorial devices, while the autumn sunlight
slanting in threw coloured reflections upon the oaken floor worn smooth
and polished by the feet of generations.
She was dressed in cream serge, a slight, dainty, neat-waisted figure,
thrown into relief as she leaned back against the dark old panelling,
laughing at my retort.
Her musical voice echoed down the long corridor, that old place that
always seemed so far remote from the present day, and where the country
folk declared that at night could be heard the footfall of the knight
and the rustle of the lady's kirtle.
Ryhall was indeed a magnificent old place, built by Sir Henry Burnet in
the Tudor days, and pre-eminent to-day among the historic mansions of
England, an architectural triumph that still remained almost the same as
it was on the death of its builder. Its great vaulted hall with the
wonderful fireplace and carved minstrels' gallery, its fine old
tapestries in King James's room, the yellow drawing-room, the red
boudoir, and the Baron's hall, full of antique furniture, were all
splendid apartments breathing of an age long past and forgotten.
Being something of an antiquary myself, I loved Ryhall, and took a keen
delight in exploring its quaint passages and discovering its secret
doors in picture-frames and panelling. Tibbie, however, who had no love
for old things, hated Ryhall. She preferred everything essentially
modern, the art nouveau, art colourings, and the electric light of her
mother's house in Grosvenor Street. She only came down to Ryhall when
absolutely necessary, and then grumbled constantly, even worrying Jack,
her brother--now Lord Scarcliff--to "put some decent new furniture into
the place," and declaring to her mother that the house was full of moths
and rats.
"Look!" she suddenly exclaimed at last. "The boys are coming home!
Can't you see them there, down in the avenue?" and she pointed with her
finger. "Well," she added, "you're not a bit entertaining, Wilfrid.
You refuse to become my husband, so I suppose I shall have to marry
someone else. The mater says I really must marry somebody."
"Of course, you must," I said. "But who is to be the happy man? Have
you decided?"
"M'-well, I don't quite know. Ellice Winsloe is a good fellow, and
we're very friendly," she admitted. "The mater approves of him, because
he's well off."
"Then she wouldn't approve of me," I laughed. "You know I haven't got
very much."
"I've never asked her. Indeed, if you would marry me I shouldn't ask
her, I should marry first and ask afterwards."
"But do you really mean to marry Ellice?" I asked seriously. "Is he--
well, such a very particular friend?"
"He proposed to me a fortnight ago after the Jardines' dance, and I
refused him--I always refuse, you know," and she smiled again.
She was as gay and merry as usual, yet there was about her face a look
of strange anxiety that greatly puzzled me.
"Then you've had other offers?"
"Of course, but mostly from the undesirables. Oh! you would laugh if
you could hear them laying open their hearts, as they call it," she said
gaily. "Why does a man call his love his secret--as though he'd
committed some awful crime? It is most amusing, I can assure you.
Mason and I have some good laughs over it very often."
"But you surely don't tell your maid such things?" I said, surprised,
but knowing well her hoydenish spirit.
"Indeed I do. Mason enjoys the joke just as much as I do."
"Ah! Tibbie," I said reproachfully, "you are a sad breaker of men's
hearts! By Jove! you are so good-looking that if I didn't know you I,
too, should fall in love with you."
"Why don't you? That's just what I want. Then we should marry and live
happy ever after. It would be so delightful. I'd marry you to-morrow,
dear old boy, if you wished," she declared unblushingly.
"And regret it the day after," I laughed. "Why, Tibbie, you know how
horribly badly off the poor old governor left me--a bare thousand a year
when all expenses of Netherdene are paid. The place is an absolute
white elephant, shabby, worn out, dilapidated--certainly not the house
to take a bride to. I haven't been up there for nearly two years. A
cotton-spinner in Oldham rents the shoot, and his cheque is always
helpful."
"Yes," she remarked thoughtfully, gazing down upon the oak floor,
"Netherdene certainly isn't a very cheerful spot. It would make a nice
home for incurables, or a lunatic asylum. Why don't you try and form a
company, or something in the City, and run it? Other fellows do."
"What's the use?" I asked. "I'm no hand at business; I only wish I
were. Then I could make money. Now, I only wander about and spend it."
"Well, you have a decent time, so what more can you want?" she asked,
looking at me with those wonderful eyes that had caused many a man's
head to reel. "You ought, after all, to be satisfied, and thank your
stars you're not worse off."
"You're not satisfied yourself, even though you are one of the most
popular girls in town?" I said. "You want a husband."
"I shouldn't want one if the mater gave me a decent allowance. I hate
to be continually borrowing from Cynthia when the mater has plenty and
Jack is throwing it away on the Stock Exchange. He's always learning of
good things from his friends, but they generally result in losses."
A silence fell between us for some moments, broken only by the slow,
solemn ticking of the long old clock near by.
"And so, Tibbie, you intend to marry Ellice!" I remarked at last,
looking straight into her handsome face. Yes; after all, there was an
indescribable sweetness in her manner, whatever the world might say
regarding her.
"It's a secret. I've told nobody; therefore you'll not say a word, will
you?"
"Certainly not. But I congratulate you. Winsloe is, I believe, a real
good fellow, and I can only hope you will love him."
"I shall learn to love him in time, I suppose," she answered. "Look!
there he is!"
And glancing down I saw the well-set-up figure, in drab tweeds with his
gun across his shoulder, striding over the park, together with her
brother Jack, my old friend Eric Domville, Lord Wydcombe, and several
ladies of the house-party in shooting kit, followed by the keepers and
dogs.
"Tibbie," I said, seriously, turning to her. "You know we've known each
other many years. I was your first sweetheart, and afterwards your
friend. I am still your firm friend, and as such I may be permitted to
give you a single word of advice--to urge you not to marry that man
unless you really love him."
"I know, my dear old Wilfrid," she said, smiling prettily. "You are
such a philosopher. You ought to have been a parson. Nowadays women
don't marry for love. They unfortunately put that away with their short
skirts. They marry for convenience."
And she gazed again out of the lead-lighted window.
"But is it wise of you? Remember I am still your platonic friend, and
have every regard for your future happiness. To serve you I am always
ready. That you know. Only command me, Tibbie."
She hesitated for a moment, then turning to me with that strange,
anxious look upon her countenance, an expression most unusual for her,
she said in a low, intense voice,--
"I wonder if I might actually take you at your word, Wilfrid. I wonder
if--if--" and she hesitated, pursing her lips, and I saw that her hand
trembled.
"Of course I'm always ready to assist you," I said, somewhat surprised
at her sudden change of manner.
"Ah! no!" she gasped, suddenly pale to the lips, a strange look of
terror in her eyes. "My secret! I am very foolish. I cannot tell it
to you--you of all men. It is too terrible. You would hate me!"
"Your secret!" I echoed. "What secret, Tibbie? Tell me?"
But she turned away from me, and covering her white face with her hands,
burst into a flood of tears.