GLADYS
On arriving in London, Vaughan found his secretary with the usual
heaps of letters. One envelope, addressed in a large and rather
infantine hand, was put aside for him. The note ran--
"The Baldfaced Stag,
Edgware.
"Dear Mr. Vaughan,
"I eard only yesterday that the play you kindly sent me and mother
to was wrote by you, I call it a shame you didn't tell me before,
we saw the name on the programme, but never thought it could be the
same but yesterday mother saw a piece in the paper about you in the
weekly dispatch and she said it was the same, I'm sory I said the
people in the play went on silly I beg pardon for calling the play
silly I wouldnt have done it if Id known, so hope youre not angry,
they seemed to me to go on silly, but I dont reelly know much
about those kind of ladies and gentlemen, we saw the piece in the
paper only yesterday and mother said it was the same, we hope you
will soon come again to tea the calf is better believe me yours
truly
"GLADIS ADELAIDE BRILL."
He instantly wrote back--
"Dear Miss Brill,
"I am _so_ relieved and thankful to hear the calf is better, all
the more because I had no idea it had been indisposed. I fancied,
though, it was looking a little pale the last time I had the
pleasure of meeting it in the field. Please don't think again of
your criticism. It gave me very great pleasure. You must think me
very foolish. You could say nothing that I would not like except to
ask me not to come and see you. I am very busy just now and so have
little time for afternoon calls, but will come one of these days
soon.
"Yours always,
"GILBERT HEREFORD VAUGHAN."
He waited a moment, and then added--
"I will turn up to-morrow at four. Try not to forget me till then."
For the rest of the day he was in high spirits. The letter seemed to
keep him up through the various little bothers of the day. He had been
going to France for the summer. He admitted to himself that this
semi-flirtation was keeping him in England. He didn't like the idea of
going away very long from the possibility of turning up at the
"Bald-faced Stag."
The explanation Harry gave about Johnson's telegram satisfied Valentia
for the time, as he declined the invitation to Cowes, but the incident
left an uneasy feeling in Val's mind. She could not bear to own to
herself that he was deceiving her, and he hadn't the courage to give it
away yet, not that he cared so very much about hurting her, but he was
happier at the Green Gate than anywhere else. He liked the house, the
atmosphere, and Romer; but what kept him most was, of course, that
curious charm Valentia had for him, which was perhaps stronger than ever
because he knew that the end was not far off. He often thought he was a
fool not to have taken the opportunity to break it off on this occasion.
He couldn't stand the idea of not seeing her, just because of the way
her hair grew on her forehead! So low, and in such thick waves! Alec
Walmer's hair, also fair, was thin and unmeaning. She had a low
forehead, and yet the hair began high up. In the evening when it was
carefully arranged, and the iron had entered into it, it looked like a
stiff transformation, even worse than when left to nature.
But of course, in spite of the reconciliation, a residue of mistrust
remained, and on his side a sensation of restlessness which left him
irritable; less amiable and pleasant than usual.
They were sitting on the little terrace. He was smoking and reading the
paper. He suddenly threw it down and said--
"How quiet you are, Val! Why don't you talk?"
"I don't think I've got anything to say."
"You seem depressed," he said, rather aggressively.
"I feel a little depressed."
Harry gave expression to the usual injustice of the unfaithful.
"What a mistake women make in being gloomy! How foolish it is. Shall I
tell you the key of the whole situation between men and women?"
"Do."
"Well, dear, it's just--a _smile_. Never be dull, never be ill, never be
depressed. Be gay--always gay. That's what men like--that's the one
thing that they go out for and come in for--a smile."
"Your ideal of a woman seems to be a Cheshire cat," she answered,
looking rather amused. "Your motto is, like the man in _The Arcadians_:
Always Merry and Bright. Well, I'm sure there's a good deal in it. But
I'm not usually accused of being a dreary person."
"Of course you're not; you're charming, lively, amusing, sympathetic.
That's your great attraction, Val. But the last few days you seem rather
to have lost it."
"You can hardly resent my feeling a little down, Harry. One or two
little things that have happened lately have made me anxious."
"Never be anxious. You ought to trust, trust--always trust."
"Oh, that's all very well! That wire...."
"Are we going to have that all over again? I thought I'd explained." He
assumed the air of a patient martyr.
"I know you _explained_ all right. Well, I won't think about it any
more. Don't be horrid, Harry.... Have you seen this week's _Punch_?
There's something in it simply _too_ heavenly--such a joke! Let me read
it to you."
"It's very sweet of you--but do you ever realise----I wonder if it's
ever struck you, Val, that men aren't always in the mood for heavenly
jokes? There are times when one likes to think--to see life as it is--to
discuss abstract things, even."
"Oh! Well ... what do you think of Daphne's dress? Isn't it pretty? It
was made by Ogburn, all out of nothing, in no time."
He looked at Daphne, who was sitting under a tree reading Cyril's last
letter over again.
"It's all right. It suits _her_. I don't call _that_ a serious subject."
"What subject would you like, then?"
"Well--Romer, for instance. Where is he?"
"Talking to the gardener about mowing. Do you want him? I'll call him if
you like."
"Dear Val, it's not quite like you to be ironical to _me_.... You ought
not to laugh at Romer either. I'm complex, perhaps--I know I am; but it
jars on me when you do that."
She stared at him.
"Look here--I know I'm tiresome," said Harry, returning to his usual
caressing manner. "Don't take any notice of it. It's--the weather, I
think, or want of exercise. I'll go and improvise a little."
He pushed back his chair, and, with a parting look of forgiveness, he
went into the house and began to improvise (rather dismally) a
well-known funeral march. Or perhaps it was only a coincidence. Perhaps
he would have thought of it if Chopin hadn't.
Harry was only musical by fits and starts, and generally either to
impress some one or because he was out of temper. Val never regarded it
as a good sign when he grappled with the Steinway.
In ten minutes he had grown tired of his mood of melody, and strolled
into the rose garden with a book.
Yes, certainly Harry was restless.