THE GREEN GATE
When Harry came down to breakfast, a little late, he found Valentia
waiting to pour out his coffee, and some letters on his plate. She
watched him as he opened them. Most of them looked like bills. On the
envelope of one was a little blue flag. Harry put this letter in his
pocket, and went on eating.
"It's a lovely morning, Harry. So fresh; just the sort of day not to do
anything at all."
"Ah! that's what's so delightful about you all," he answered. "You never
say, 'What shall we do?' and neither of you have ever said yet that this
is Liberty Hall, which means, as a rule, in a country house, 'Breakfast
at eight o'clock sharp, you won't mind it being a little cold if you're
late, and then we are going for a motor drive at 9.30.' Still, I think,
perhaps, one ought to take a little exercise. I feel almost equal to a
game of croquet this afternoon--later on--when I'm stronger. Is any one
coming down to-day?"
"No. And only Van Buren, and Vaughan and Muir Howard on Sunday. I see
you've heard from the Walmers. What do they say?"
"It's sure to be nothing of interest. How I love your hair parted on one
side! It makes you look like a boy."
"Not a principal boy, I hope. Why not read the letter?"
Harry got up and fetched himself something from the sideboard.
"I don't feel quite strong enough yet. When I've had breakfast. I should
like to paint you as you're looking now, Val. I think I'll do a sketch
of you in the rose garden, all in black and white, like a Beardsley,
with the balustrades and steps and things behind you. Will you sit to
me?"
"That's all very well. But why don't you read your letter?"
"There's sure to be nothing in it."
"How can you tell till you've opened it?"
"I know. I always feel what's in a letter without opening it. Don't you?
I absorb the essence, as it were, through the covers of the envelope, as
somebody or other--Macaulay, I think--used to absorb all the important
things through the covers of a book. Or wasn't it Macaulay? Anyhow, it
doesn't matter. It was some tiresome person whom one oughtn't to talk
about on a morning like this."
Harry evidently was not quite at his ease.
"But why not read it?" She spoke playfully.
"How persistent women are, just like children. To tease you I just
shan't."
"Oh, Harry!"
"I shan't read it now at all," he went on. "I can answer it without
reading it."
"It's only that I should like to know how the Walmers are enjoying
themselves on _Flying Fish_. Lady Walmer was a little afraid they
mightn't like it."
Here Romer came up to the window and called out--
"I say, Val, come here a minute. I want to ask you something."
"Here I am, dear," and she vanished into the garden.
The second she had gone Harry opened the letter very carefully, and
read--
"Dearest Harry,
"You are a rotter never to write. I'm having _such_ a time. Weather
priceless, but very sick at not hearing from you. Algie Thynne is
here. Do you know him? He's rather a nut. Wish you were here. No
more to-day. Bye-bye, old son.
"Your loving "ALEC."
"P.S.--Do write. The moonlight nights are simply topping. Just like
a picture. I think you'd like it; otherwise everything is beastly.
"I love you more than ever.
"A."
He put the letter back in the untorn envelope and carefully fastened it
up again. He then placed it on the mantelpiece, and having finished his
breakfast, lit a cigarette.
He looked thoughtful.
"Algie Thynne, indeed!" he said to himself. "How pathetic, trying to
make me jealous! Well, it's a pretty letter, and what's more, it must be
answered."
Val came back.
"Romer wants the lawn mown," she said. "He's perfectly mad on the
subject of mowing the lawn. He seems to think it ought to be shaved
every day. It's the only thing he knows about the country. Well, have
you read your letter?"
"There it is," said Harry. "You can read it if you like." He watched her
carefully as she took it from the mantelpiece.
"I don't want to read it," she said, holding it.
"Nor do I," said Harry.
"Harry, tell me honestly, wouldn't you really mind if I tore it into
little bits and put it in the waste-paper basket--just as it is?"
"Not a straw," said Harry, shaking his head.
She clapped her hands, tore it into tiny pieces, and threw it in the
basket. Then she said, in a low voice of deep gratitude--
"Oh, Harry, you are sweet! Do forgive me."
"I don't see that there's anything to forgive," said Harry.
"Yes, there is; lots. I'm afraid I've been horrid. I'll never bother you
about any thing again."
She was simply beaming.
"Good," answered Harry indifferently.
But as he followed her into the garden he looked rather perplexed. He
felt that this sort of thing was not leading up very well to what he
would have to tell her soon. However, why spoil a lovely day by thinking
of it?
Like a schoolboy with his holiday task before him, he put it off as long
as possible.
Though he didn't own it to himself, and was disdainfully amused at
Alec's letter, still the thought of Algie Thynne, moonlight nights on
the yacht, topping weather, and his own neglect, gave him some cause for
alarm. Algie Thynne was _criblé_ with debts, and probably keen on
marrying for money. Contemptible young ass! Why didn't he _work_? Harry
despised him.
At the earliest opportunity (which, by the way, did not arise until he
had made an excuse to go into the village, where he wrote at the post
office) the answer was sent.
Even Harry found the beginning of the letter too difficult, so he always
began (as Valentia might have said) without a beginning, which impressed
Miss Walmer much more. Ever since he had reached the age of discretion,
which, in his case, was at his majority, Harry had been thoroughly
trained in the habit of writing letters that gratified the recipient
enormously without compromising the writer in the slightest degree. The
habitual dread of those _bêtes noires_ of Don Juan--the breach of
promise case and the Divorce Court--had got him into the way of writing
the sort of letter that he would have had no objection to hear read
aloud in court. Perhaps that was why the sentences were always polished,
and the meaning a little vague.
"... I don't speak your language, perhaps, but I understand your
letter, reading between the lines. It came like a whiff of fresh
sea air. Yes, it would be delightful to be on board _Flying Fish_
now. However, no doubt Algie Thynne--(_how_ eloquently, by the way,
you describe him! putting all the complications of his character
and the dazzling charm of his personality in a nutshell by the
simple sentence '_He's rather a nut!_')--amply compensates for my
absence. You ask if I know him. I do, though perhaps more by
reputation than anything else. We have met once or twice. Where? I
can't quite recall. Perhaps at the Oratory, or at the Supper Club
or some place of that sort. But somehow I never pursued his
acquaintance, nor did it ever ripen into friendship. I felt,
instinctively, that he was too clever for me.
"I trust all the same that his brilliance will not altogether
overshadow your memory of _others_. I should not like to think that
we were drifting apart. Still, if it should be so, I must resign
myself. I could still be happy in thinking of you, Alec.
_'Love that is love at all
Asks for no earthly coronal'_--
but, I remember, you once expressed to me your opinion that _all
poetry is rot_. So I will not bore you with quotations. It is
pleasant here, and my cousins are very kind, and leave me alone to
think as much as I like. I'm not, somehow, quite in the mood for
the usual gaieties and frivolities of a country house. Last night
we played Musical Chairs until two in the morning, and to-day I am
a little weary. Your postscript gave me joy. I need not say that I
reciprocate it, need I?...
"I feel all that you are feeling, and somehow even know what you
are doing, and if you did not write again until we meet, I should
not be anxious. I have a trusting nature. But when you wire,
remember that the telegraph boy has a good way to walk, and when
telegrams arrive after midnight, it causes a sensation and much
inquiry. Also I cannot help feeling that every one in the village,
as well as at the Green Gate, has read the words I would like to
keep to myself alone. I have a curious love of mystery--isn't
mystery the great charm of all romance?--So to gratify this fancy
of mine, sign your next telegram 'Johnson.' I know you won't mind.
"When we meet again, all, I trust, will be clear and definite
before us. Best love to dear Lady Walmer, and to yourself what I am
sure you will know. Don't be angry with me for not writing oftener.
I find it very difficult to express my thoughts, for alas, I have
no command of language. Not only that, the pens here have one great
fault--they won't write. Otherwise they're quite excellent.... Yes,
your note has given me, as the French say, 'furiously to think.'
"Hoping that all will go well with you, and looking forward, think
me as always,
"Yours, faithfully,
"HARRY BROKE DE FREYNE."
"There! that ought to keep her quiet for a month," he thought as he
posted the letter, and with a sigh of relief turned back towards the
Green Gate.