A SUNDAY AFTERNOON
By this time Van Buren was entirely in Harry's confidence; that is to
say, Harry had gradually trained him to bear without flinching the
situation as Harry represented it. He believed Harry had a hopeless
romantic affection for Mrs. Romer Wyburn which he was trying to stifle,
and that Miss Walmer being hopelessly in love with _him_, he was doing
his best to marry her, partly, as he candidly admitted, on worldly
grounds.
Van Buren was deeply touched at Harry's trust in him, and was always
trying to keep him up to his good resolutions by pointing out that any
understanding (however Platonic) between the pretty Valentia and the
handsome guest was dishonourable, a breach of hospitality towards Romer,
that silent but admirable host.
Indeed, he repeated to Harry so often and so firmly, "It can't be done;
one can't make love to the wife of a friend," that Harry was driven to
the point of replying that he hardly saw whom else, as a matter of fact,
one _could_ very well make love to; it being impossible to have romances
with people one didn't know. And in this case the fact that Harry was
very fond of Romer made the temptation far greater, as he explained;
Harry being (as he pointed out) so very sensitive and highly strung that
he could never, somehow, be really attracted by a woman whose husband
was not sympathetic to him. Which point of view Van Buren, shaking his
head, regarded as unsound.
Harry now spent much time giving picturesque sketches and impressions of
his feelings to his friend, for he had an almost feminine love of
talking over personal affairs to the sympathetic. In his benevolence Van
Buren longed to protect Valentia and Romer, and to give Miss Walmer all
she wanted; but most of all his idea was to save Harry from himself, so
he always accepted with alacrity invitations to the Green Gate for
altruistic reasons. Besides, his desire to see Daphne, although she was
now becoming more and more remote to him, was still persistent, if a
little less vivid.
"I've had a beautiful womanly letter from Alec to-day," Harry confided
in Van as soon as he arrived. "You know the sort of thing she writes:
all in jerks and subaltern's slang. With sincere sentiment showing
between the lines. And I answered it."
"A beautiful manly letter, I hope? I'm sure you could do that as well as
any one, Harry."
Harry smiled.
"Oh, just some vague, cautious slosh, not unamusing in its way--it'll
_get_ there all right."
"Yes, Harry, I know, but I do hope----Ah, Miss Daphne, how beautiful
your England is looking to-day! In America we never have a day like
this, warm and yet cool, with all those nice, white, fleecy clouds in
the sky. Our atmosphere is always so hard and clear. Now this garden
with those large trees is just like a Corot. They _are_ fine trees.
Poplars, I presume?"
"You _do_ presume," smiled Daphne; "I don't know what they are, but I'm
perfectly sure they're not poplars."
"Oh yes--I'm wrong. They're oaks, I've no doubt." He hummed, "'The oak
and the ash and the bonny ivy tree.' Do let's walk over and look at them
closer, Miss Daphne."
"I'm afraid I can't. Tea's ready."
To his annoyance Van was obliged to follow Daphne and join the group
round the tea-table. He declined with some formality of manner to accept
the glass of iced water Daphne offered him, and looked at her with that
look of tender, fixed, respectful reproach that had the effect of
irritating her very nearly to the point of incivility.
She turned to Muir Howard, who was looking very pink and cheery. Muir
was a popular man for his great ease in making conversation, the kind
that is as the pudding part in a plum pudding, and without which the
plums, however delightful, could hardly stick together. Though the great
majority of people talk commonplaces, their banalities are by no means
always the kind that help. Muir's particular way of opening open doors,
flogging dead horses, and genially enjoying any spark of fun in his
friends, coupled with his good looks and pleasant, hearty disposition,
made him a most useful and welcome guest, as a sort of super. He was
quite decorative, and could be turned on to talk newspaper politics to
dull men, pretty platitudes to plain women; to make himself generally
useful, and altogether to help things to go. In this way he was
invaluable. Young girls always liked him; he was a great favourite with
elderly ladies, and with men of his own age also, who were, however,
occasionally bored with his worship for his friend Vaughan. He found it
very difficult not to mention Gillie less than once in every five
minutes.
That distinguished young man, who was beginning to look a little jaded
with incense, was engrossed with his hostess. Whenever he was there
Harry always became particularly devoted in his manner to Valentia, and
scarcely ever left her other side. This was one of the reasons that she
enjoyed Gillie's presence, besides that she was, now that she knew him
well, particularly fond of him. His conversation and personality in
general had a special flavour.
Every one was talking and laughing with the light intoxication produced
by tea and cigarettes in the open air on a fine Sunday afternoon,
excepting only Romer, who as usual said hardly anything, absorbed in
admiration of his wife. He suddenly remarked--
"I say, Val. The Campbells are coming."
He wondered why this statement produced a burst of irresponsible
laughter.
"What fun! Will there be bagpipes?" Vaughan asked.
"No, no. Romer means the Prebendary Campbell, or at least his wife and
daughter. They're coming to see us this afternoon. I had quite
forgotten. Please all behave nicely. They've been a long time making up
their minds. I believe they think we're frivolous."
"Not really? How could they? It reminds one of the story of Henry
James." Vaughan stopped to light a cigarette.
"Go on."
"It appears that for some time his near neighbours in the country
looked a little coldly on him on the grounds that, being a writer, he
must be Bohemian. At last the local doctor's wife and clergyman's wife
called on him, and finding him perfectly respectable, stayed for many
hours. They were particularly tedious and rather self-righteous. When
they had gone, he said thoughtfully to some one who was pitying him for
being bored, 'One of those poor wantons has a certain cadaverous
grace.'"
The story was well received, except by Van Buren, who seemed painfully
shocked.
Daphne, who had gone into the house to fetch some snapshots, now came
running back saying--
"Val, Val! The Campbells are arriving in a fly, and they seem to have
brought their foreigner with them--that man Miss Campbell told me about.
He's a kind of Belgian, and awfully clever--he's invented something."
"What's he invented?"
"Brussels sprouts?" suggested Harry rather sleepily.
"But they've been invented already."
"Why shouldn't he invent them over again? Give him a chance."
Muir began to sing softly, "Young Lochinvar has come out of the West,"
which he appeared to think a suitable serenade, but he stopped suddenly
at Gillie's entreaty.
"I don't mind anything Muir does, as long as he doesn't sing," he always
explained.
"It's awful hard lines. I've got a ripping baritone voice, but I never
have a chance to use it," murmured Muir.
"You shall sing to me this afternoon. I'll accompany you," whispered
Daphne.
Muir had gratefully answered that it was frightfully decent of her, when
the servant announced--
"Mrs. and Miss Campbell. Mr.----" He left a blank, unable to pronounce
the name.
But Mrs. Campbell introduced Mynheer von Stoendyck.
* * * * *
Mrs. Campbell was an amiable, colourless woman, with a greyish brown
fringe that looked as if it were made of Berlin wool. Though she was not
yet forty-five, she wore a bonnet with violet velvet strings, and had a
very long waist. Also, her skirt, in reality quite normal, looked, to
the eye used to contemporary fashion, grotesquely wide at the end.
Her daughter was an ordinary Rectory girl, spoilt by a dash of culture.
At a glance all present saw she was in love with Mr. Stoendyck. He was a
well-set-up man of about thirty-five, with a military manner and
scientific eye-glasses, also a turned-up light moustache. He spoke all
languages with one rasping accent, but Mrs. Campbell seemed to suffer
under the delusion that he could only understand broken English. So
whenever people spoke to him she translated their remarks into a sort of
baby language that seemed singularly out of place from her.
"I'm afraid you must think me dreadfully worldly, calling on you on a
Sunday," said Mrs. Campbell, laughing socially as she sat down. "But
what the Prebendary always says is, the better the day the better the
deed."
"Oh, does he always say that?" Harry asked with great apparent interest,
waking up. He had been overpowered with languor ever since lunch.
"Yes, and I felt sure you wouldn't mind our bringing our friend, Mr.
Stoendyck. He is so clever. He's come over to England about an
invention."
Val thought of Brussels sprouts, but did not suggest it.
Mrs. Campbell apparently couldn't take her eyes off the Belgian, whom
she watched as one watches a rather dangerous pet, though he appeared
particularly safe.
Muir, for an unknown reason addressing the Belgian as Professor, was
asking him his impressions of England. Mrs. Campbell bent forward, and
said with a nod--
"E ope you like it--Angleterre, you know"--and nodded idiotically.
"I find it most interesting," said Mr. Stoendyck raspingly, in admirable
English. "There are opportunities in this country for the pursuance of
science, art, and social intercourse which one would hardly have
expected. I do not take tea, I thank you much."
"Have a glass of beer?" said Romer, suddenly inspired.
Simple as the sentence was, Mrs. Campbell thought it necessary to
translate it with more nods.
"E ask you, ave beer. _Bière_, you know! Glass," and then she went on in
her usual tone, "Most thoughtful of Mr. Wyburn, I'm sure. What a
charming place this is of yours, Mrs. Wyburn. I always say the Green
Gate is the most picturesque place in the neighbourhood. And Mr. de
Freyne, I understand, is an artist. Do you know my daughter, Marion, is
_so_ interested in art! And my younger son, Garstin, though he is only
twelve years old, shows great artistic talent, too. He did a map of
Buckinghamshire that really surprised me, almost any one would recognise
it at a glance. I always say I'm sure some day Garstin will be in the
Royal Academy."
Van Buren had approached and began to talk to Mrs. Campbell. Val went
over to the Belgian, but she heard the American beginning a sentence as
usual with, "Pleased to meet you. I've never had the opportunity of
mixing much in clerical circles in New York, Mrs. Campbell," and felt
sure he was going to ask impossible questions about Prebendaries and
Rural Deans.
The rasping Belgian, on whom both the mother and daughter cast continual
anxious and admiring eyes, though he seemed thoroughly able to take care
of himself, said to Muir, who was taking him on--
"No, I do not spend my entire time over my invention. Mrs. Campbell is
so kind as to take me for drives in the environment, to give me a right
impression of the beauties of Hertfordshire. For relaxation I play the
piano."
"Ha! Musical, eh, Professor?" asked Muir shrewdly. "That's right; so am
I. I'm awfully keen on music." He spoke reassuringly.
Mr. Stoendyck looked at him through his glasses, and said without
interest--
"Indeed. I find Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, even on the piano,
extraordinarily satisfying and refreshing to the mind after the strain
of looking at English scenery." He drank a long draught of iced lager.
"Oh! Classical, eh? I'm not up to that. Queen's Hall, eh? That sort of
thing."
"I beg your pardon? Is there----Has the Queen a hall in this
neighbourhood?"
"How do you mean, Professor?"
"What do you say?"
"I beg your pardon?"
Mrs. Campbell, who managed to hear through her own conversation with Van
Buren, called out--
"E say e no understand," and nodded smilingly, seeming to think she had
helped matters considerably.
Miss Campbell talked of tennis, matins, hats and the opera to Daphne,
but appeared to be absent, and occasionally smiled at the foreigner, who
ignored her.
At last the Campbells and their Belgian withdrew, Mrs. Campbell saying
that the Prebendary wished them to go to Evensong. Their departure left,
as such visits do, a blank and a reaction. Our friends were silent for a
minute.
Then Vaughan said--
"I feel crushed, and a little flattened out, too."
"_I_ feel as if my brain were made of cotton wool," said Harry.
"Come and sing," suggested Daphne to Muir, and they went off to the
drawing-room, from which strains were soon heard about _It IS not
because_,--something or other.
In the middle of the song Daphne played a wrong note, stopped, and
said--
"Oh, I wish Cyril was here!"
"So do I. If he can accompany, I wish he was here."
"Oh, go on!"
"_It IS not because thy heart is mine_"....
* * * * *
The party in the garden listened with a worried expression.
"How about croquet?" suggested Val. "The tapping noise will take it
off."
"Yes. Come on."
"You can't," said Romer. "The lawn wants mowing."