Though exhibiting indifference, Somerset had felt a pang of
disappointment when he heard the news of Paula’s approaching
dinner-party. It seemed a little unkind of her to pass him over, seeing
how much they were thrown together just now. That dinner meant more
than it sounded. Notwithstanding the roominess of her castle, she was at
present living somewhat incommodiously, owing partly to the stagnation
caused by her recent bereavement, and partly to the necessity for
overhauling the De Stancy lumber piled in those vast and gloomy
chambers before they could be made tolerable to nineteenth-century
fastidiousness.
To give dinners on any large scale before Somerset had at least set
a few of these rooms in order for her, showed, to his thinking, an
overpowering desire for society.
During the week he saw less of her than usual, her time being to
all appearance much taken up with driving out to make calls on her
neighbours and receiving return visits. All this he observed from the
windows of his studio overlooking the castle ward, in which room he
now spent a great deal of his time, bending over drawing-boards and
instructing Dare, who worked as well as could be expected of a youth of
such varied attainments.
Nearer came the Wednesday of the party, and no hint of that event
reached Somerset, but such as had been communicated by the Baptist
minister. At last, on the very afternoon, an invitation was handed into
his studio--not a kind note in Paula’s handwriting, but a formal printed
card in the joint names of Mrs. Goodman and Miss Power. It reached him
just four hours before the dinner-time. He was plainly to be used as a
stop-gap at the last moment because somebody could not come.
Having previously arranged to pass a quiet evening in his rooms at the
Lord Quantock Arms, in reading up chronicles of the castle from
the county history, with the view of gathering some ideas as to the
distribution of rooms therein before the demolition of a portion of the
structure, he decided off-hand that Paula’s dinner was not of sufficient
importance to him as a professional man and student of art to justify
a waste of the evening by going. He accordingly declined Mrs. Goodman’s
and Miss Power’s invitation; and at five o’clock left the castle and
walked across the fields to the little town.
He dined early, and, clearing away heaviness with a cup of coffee,
applied himself to that volume of the county history which contained the
record of Stancy Castle.
Here he read that ‘when this picturesque and ancient structure was
founded, or by whom, is extremely uncertain. But that a castle stood on
the site in very early times appears from many old books of charters. In
its prime it was such a masterpiece of fortification as to be the wonder
of the world, and it was thought, before the invention of gunpowder,
that it never could be taken by any force less than divine.’
He read on to the times when it first passed into the hands of ‘De
Stancy, Chivaler,’ and received the family name, and so on from De
Stancy to De Stancy till he was lost in the reflection whether Paula
would or would not have thought more highly of him if he had accepted
the invitation to dinner. Applying himself again to the tome, he learned
that in the year 1504 Stephen the carpenter was ‘paid eleven pence for
necessarye repayrs,’ and William the mastermason eight shillings ‘for
whyt lyming of the kitchen, and the lyme to do it with,’ including ‘a
new rope for the fyer bell;’ also the sundry charges for ‘vij crockes,
xiij lytyll pans, a pare of pot hookes, a fyer pane, a lanterne, a
chafynge dyshe, and xij candyll stychs.’
Bang went eight strokes of the clock: it was the dinner-hour.
‘There, now I can’t go, anyhow!’ he said bitterly, jumping up, and
picturing her receiving her company. How would she look; what would she
wear? Profoundly indifferent to the early history of the noble
fabric, he felt a violent reaction towards modernism, eclecticism, new
aristocracies, everything, in short, that Paula represented. He even
gave himself up to consider the Greek court that she had wished for, and
passed the remainder of the evening in making a perspective view of the
same.
The next morning he awoke early, and, resolving to be at work betimes,
started promptly. It was a fine calm hour of day; the grass slopes were
silvery with excess of dew, and the blue mists hung in the depths of
each tree for want of wind to blow them out. Somerset entered the
drive on foot, and when near the castle he observed in the gravel the
wheel-marks of the carriages that had conveyed the guests thither the
night before. There seemed to have been a large number, for the road
where newly repaired was quite cut up. Before going indoors he was
tempted to walk round to the wing in which Paula slept.
Rooks were cawing, sparrows were chattering there; but the blind of her
window was as closely drawn as if it were midnight. Probably she was
sound asleep, dreaming of the compliments which had been paid her by
her guests, and of the future triumphant pleasures that would follow in
their train. Reaching the outer stone stairs leading to the great hall
he found them shadowed by an awning brilliantly striped with red
and blue, within which rows of flowering plants in pots bordered the
pathway. She could not have made more preparation had the gathering been
a ball. He passed along the gallery in which his studio was situated,
entered the room, and seized a drawing-board to put into correct drawing
the sketch for the Greek court that he had struck out the night before,
thereby abandoning his art principles to please the whim of a girl. Dare
had not yet arrived, and after a time Somerset threw down his pencil and
leant back.
His eye fell upon something that moved. It was white, and lay in the
folding chair on the opposite side of the room. On near approach he
found it to be a fragment of swan’s-down fanned into motion by his own
movements, and partially squeezed into the chink of the chair as though
by some person sitting on it.
None but a woman would have worn or brought that swan’s-down into his
studio, and it made him reflect on the possible one. Nothing interrupted
his conjectures till ten o’clock, when Dare came. Then one of the
servants tapped at the door to know if Mr. Somerset had arrived.
Somerset asked if Miss Power wished to see him, and was informed that
she had only wished to know if he had come. Somerset sent a return
message that he had a design on the board which he should soon be glad
to submit to her, and the messenger departed.
‘Fine doings here last night, sir,’ said Dare, as he dusted his
T-square.
‘O indeed!’
‘A dinner-party, I hear; eighteen guests.’
‘Ah,’ said Somerset.
‘The young lady was magnificent--sapphires and opals--she carried as
much as a thousand pounds upon her head and shoulders during that three
or four hour. Of course they call her charming; Compuesta no hay muger
fea, as they say at Madrid.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment,’ said Somerset, with reserve.
Dare said no more, and presently the door opened, and there stood Paula.
Somerset nodded to Dare to withdraw into an adjoining room, and offered
her a chair.
‘You wish to show me the design you have prepared?’ she asked, without
taking the seat.
‘Yes; I have come round to your opinion. I have made a plan for
the Greek court you were anxious to build.’ And he elevated the
drawing-board against the wall.
She regarded it attentively for some moments, her finger resting lightly
against her chin, and said, ‘I have given up the idea of a Greek court.’
He showed his astonishment, and was almost disappointed. He had been
grinding up Greek architecture entirely on her account; had wrenched his
mind round to this strange arrangement, all for nothing.
‘Yes,’ she continued; ‘on reconsideration I perceive the want of harmony
that would result from inserting such a piece of marble-work in a
mediaeval fortress; so in future we will limit ourselves strictly to
synchronism of style--that is to say, make good the Norman work by
Norman, the Perpendicular by Perpendicular, and so on. I have informed
Mr. Havill of the same thing.’
Somerset pulled the Greek drawing off the board, and tore it in two
pieces.
She involuntarily turned to look in his face, but stopped before she had
quite lifted her eyes high enough. ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked with
suave curiosity.
‘It is of no further use,’ said Somerset, tearing the drawing in the
other direction, and throwing the pieces into the fireplace. ‘You have
been reading up orders and styles to some purpose, I perceive.’ He
regarded her with a faint smile.
‘I have had a few books down from town. It is desirable to know a little
about the architecture of one’s own house.’
She remained looking at the torn drawing, when Somerset, observing on
the table the particle of swan’s-down he had found in the chair, gently
blew it so that it skimmed across the table under her eyes.
‘It looks as if it came off a lady’s dress,’ he said idly.
‘Off a lady’s fan,’ she replied.
‘O, off a fan?’
‘Yes; off mine.’
At her reply Somerset stretched out his hand for the swan’s-down, and
put it carefully in his pocket-book; whereupon Paula, moulding her
cherry-red lower lip beneath her upper one in arch self-consciousness at
his act, turned away to the window, and after a pause said softly as she
looked out, ‘Why did you not accept our invitation to dinner?’
It was impossible to explain why. He impulsively drew near and
confronted her, and said, ‘I hope you pardon me?’
‘I don’t know that I can quite do that,’ answered she, with ever so
little reproach. ‘I know why you did not come--you were mortified at not
being asked sooner! But it was purely by an accident that you received
your invitation so late. My aunt sent the others by post, but as
yours was to be delivered by hand it was left on her table, and was
overlooked.’
Surely he could not doubt her words; those nice friendly accents were
the embodiment of truth itself.
‘I don’t mean to make a serious complaint,’ she added, in injured tones,
showing that she did. ‘Only we had asked nearly all of them to meet
you, as the son of your illustrious father, whom many of my friends know
personally; and--they were disappointed.’
It was now time for Somerset to be genuinely grieved at what he had
done. Paula seemed so good and honourable at that moment that he could
have laid down his life for her.
‘When I was dressed, I came in here to ask you to reconsider your
decision,’ she continued; ‘or to meet us in the drawing-room if you
could not possibly be ready for dinner. But you were gone.’
‘And you sat down in that chair, didn’t you, darling, and remained there
a long time musing!’ he thought. But that he did not say.
‘I am very sorry,’ he murmured.
‘Will you make amends by coming to our garden party? I ask you the very
first.’
‘I will,’ replied Somerset. To add that it would give him great
pleasure, etc., seemed an absurdly weak way of expressing his feelings,
and he said no more.
‘It is on the nineteenth. Don’t forget the day.’
He met her eyes in such a way that, if she were woman, she must have
seen it to mean as plainly as words: ‘Do I look as if I could forget
anything you say?’
She must, indeed, have understood much more by this time--the whole of
his open secret. But he did not understand her. History has revealed
that a supernumerary lover or two is rarely considered a disadvantage by
a woman, from queen to cottage-girl; and the thought made him pause.