I
_The man who lives alone lives long;
The bird is not like that, and so—his song._
If a bishop had asked Elsie Carston, “Do you really and truly believe
that islands, in far-off seas, were made islands and peopled by black
races, solely in order that your brother should govern them, and you—in
his absence—govern his children?” Elsie would have looked straight into
the eyes of the bishop and would have answered, “I do not”; but she did.
If Marcus Maitland had been asked by any one, “Do you really think and
believe that God made the hills in India solely for the preservation of
the white woman’s complexion? that where He did not make hills He did
not mean white women to go?” Marcus would have answered, “I do”; but he
did not.
So far as Marcus knew, the island chosen for the future education of
his brother-in-law, Eustace Carston, in the art of governing might have
hills. On the other hand, the faith of some former governor’s wife
might have removed them and taken them away with her, there being
no limit to the luggaged importance of governors’ wives. Marcus knew
because he had travelled. He had been on boats where every one was
cramped excepting some governor’s wife and her suite. He had suffered
the indignity of a tropical discomfiture in order that she might
acquire an importance that was as new to her as was discomfort to him.
If it had not been for Eustace Carston, he had not travelled. When a
man’s only sister marries a man he does not know, there are left to
him but two things to do—to like him or to leave him alone. Marcus
left him alone: left England. He had meant to travel until such time
as his sister should write and beg him to come back, but she did not
write and beg him to come back. She wrote at intervals saying what
a delightful time he must be having; said intelligent things about
tropical vegetation; and wrote, as they came, of charming babies, all
exactly like their father. Marcus thought they should have been like
her and therefore like him; for between him and his sister there was a
strong family likeness. In Sibyl’s eyes there was no one to be compared
with Eustace Carston. He stood alone. Marcus was tired of hearing that,
so when an American he met on board ship assured him he was a white
man, and suggested they should go into business together, Marcus,
after making exhaustive enquiries about the man and his business,
agreed. And he went to America; there lived and made money. When he
had made as much money as he wanted, he began to long for home and he
turned his face homewards, taking with him both the affection of his
American friend and an interest in the business. London was still home
to him; so he settled there and at certain times of the year turned
his thoughts to a moor in Scotland, and at others to his collection of
china, pictures, and prints, and so he occupied himself—at leisure.
Before he had left England he had begun buying china. He had since
learned how little he had then known.
On his return to London the only person he wanted to see was his sister
and she was away; and her children were with their aunt in the country.
If he could have seen the children without seeing the aunt, he would
have done it, but he disliked the aunt. He wondered what Sibyl would
do with the children when her husband took up his new appointment. She
could not surely ask Carston’s sister to have them indefinitely.
It must have been suggested to thousands of bachelor uncles that they
should take an interest in their nephews and nieces. And thousands of
bachelor uncles must have responded by taking an interest—and more than
a life interest—in their nephews and nieces. The methods of suggestion
are usually two. Either by prayer indirectly, or by an appeal, made
directly, either after church on a suitable Sunday (the hedges should
be white with hawthorns, and the cows, red and white, should be
knee-deep in buttercups, and if possible a trout should dart in and out
the shallows of the stream); or at Christmas-time when all churches are
decorated and all relations are demonstrative.
Either appeal would possibly have moved Marcus Maitland. He was
susceptible to environment: had, no doubt, as a boy, tickled trout, and
must have known something of the meaning of mistletoe. But of a letter
however delicately expressed he was always suspicious. All letters
he read, firstly, to see what was in them: secondly, to see what was
behind them. In a letter Sibyl told him her husband had been appointed
governor of yet another island that was as hot as it was remote: which
fact she stated clearly enough. Behind it was the suggestion that no
mother could subject so delicate and delicious and new a thing as
Diana’s complexion to the ravages of so intemperate a climate.
DEAR MARCUS,—Do you feel inclined to take charge of the child while
her parents are governing wisely and well that far-away island?
Diana is delightful. If you had not gone round the world, just as
a squirrel goes vaguely round and round its cage, you must have
discovered it for yourself.
I want you to have Diana. I could leave her with Elsie, Eustace’s
sister, who is a dear and so proud of Diana, but she rather resents
my having the child when I am at home. So when I go away this time I
want to leave her with some one else just to show Elsie I dare. It’s a
tremendously brave thing to do—requiring true courage on my part—but I
must do it because Elsie, having no children of her own, is centring
herself on the child, and I know if Diana should want to marry, she
might try to dissuade her. So, Marcus, will you have her? Elsie, dear
as she is, is rather too strong-minded a woman for a girl to be with
altogether. She is a little too earnest and strenuous. I want Diana
to frivol. I don’t want her to see too deeply into the things of
life—yet. Everything with Elsie is spelt with a capital letter, and is
heavily underlined. Woman to her is so much more than mere woman. I
don’t want Diana at her age to be faced with sex problems. Dear Elsie
is inclined to see in man woman’s chief and natural enemy. You will
understand! She wants Diana to do great things in life. I want life to
do great things for her. I know you will give her the chance to see
its beautiful side, and, of course, if there should be a question of
her falling in love—as there is bound to be—you will guide her gently
to fall in love with the right kind of man—a man like—dear old thing,
you are bristling all over—did you imagine I was going to say Eustace
when I want to persuade you to do something for me? I took the child
to her first dance last night. She looked like a rose; her complexion
is delicious.
Marcus was glad Diana had a complexion. Was she pretty? He should
say not. When especial mention is made of a woman’s skin it usually
means that it is the only thing that can with truth be commended. If
everything else is good, the complexion is thrown in, as it were.
Sibyl’s had been delicious, and he did not remember mentioning it in
writing to any one—not even to his tutor at Magdalen—No!
Marcus returned to the letter. Sibyl was in London and she had not let
him know—that was hard to forgive; however, she had now made a definite
demand upon him and he must respond. Hitherto she had asked of him
nothing more than an unbounded admiration of Carston and that he had
been obliged to deny her—on principle. She spoilt Carston, indulged
him, so much so that he would allow her, expect her even, to follow him
to any and every part of the world regardless of whether the climate
were good or bad for a woman’s delicate skin.
Marcus rang the bell. To the man who answered it, he said: “Pillar, I
am expecting a young lady.”
“Ah, sir,” said Pillar, “I have been expecting this—”
“Since when?”
“Well, sir, at any time during the last eighteen years the question
would not have come upon me as a shock—I saw her last night. She looked
beautiful—if I may say so, sir, like a rose.”
“Who?”
“Miss Diana, sir.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes, sir; there was a ball at Rygon House. The valet is a friend of
mine. I looked in. Miss Diana held her own. She stood out among the
disputants. She excited a certain—a creditable amount of jealousy,
among the right people. It was the opinion, expressed on the other side
of the swing door, that she should go far.... Yes, sir, she is taller
than her ladyship and, in a sense, fairer. I should say her hair is
hardly golden, although I suspect in sunlight I should discover myself
in error. Her skin is dazzling.... You will remember, sir, calling my
attention to the skins of the women—in Munich I think it was?—And her
carriage—you will perhaps remember drawing my attention to the carriage
of the women in—the Andalusian women? Yes, sir, Andalusian—I think I am
correct—How was she dressed, sir?”
Mr. Maitland had not asked the question.
“In white, sir. It didn’t look white. I mean, if you will excuse me,
there were many in white, but Miss Diana looked conspicuous. She might
have been in scarlet—she showed up so—stood _out_. I have heard you use
the expression with regard to the paintings of old masters. As we left
Madrid, I think it was, sir, you lamented the lost art of paintrature.”
“That will do, Pillar. Did her ladyship see you?”
“Her ladyship did me that honour, sir. I handed her a cup of coffee in
order to make myself known, saying, ‘Sugar, my lady,’ if I remember
rightly. Miss Diana took no refreshment. Her ladyship asked for you,
sir; she thought you were not in town. I told her you had just returned
from Norway.”
“Thank you, Pillar; that’s all.”
“Miss Carston comes here, sir?”
“Yes. That’s all.”
Pillar took from his pocket a small red notebook, in which he began to
write.
“What is it, Pillar? What are you writing?”
“Awning, sir. So far only awning. That’s all.”
“Why awning?”
“The usual accompaniment to a wedding, sir. It’s as well to get things
in hand.”