AT EDGWARE
Miss Brill had twisted up her hair and put on her Sunday dress to
receive Vaughan.
To harmonise with the Dickens's garden it ought to have been white
muslin with flounces and a pink sash. But it was a quite long, dark blue
Liberty satin, made by a smart dressmaker in the Finchley Road. It had a
high collar, an Empire waist, and gathers.
Her mother was delighted with it. Gladys had not been quite satisfied
herself, and had tried to tie it in round the ankles with concealed
string, to make it look more like a nobble skirt, as she called it.
Her almost too abundant hair had been piled over a pad, which gave her
the appearance of having a swollen head. Yet even so she looked lovely,
rather like an old-fashioned picture in the Academy of _I'se Gan'ma_, or
something of the kind, suggesting a baby disguised as a
grown-up-person.
Vaughan went through the usual ritual of asking after Mrs. Brill--he
rather hurried Mr. Brill over his remark about the finest woman one
would see in a day's march--then admired the weather, ordered tea, and
asked for Miss Brill.
Gladys came and sat down with a rather shy, self-conscious air.
She soon lost it, however, and began to get natural again.
"Oh, Mr. Vaughan! I _never_ was more surprised than I was at that piece
in the paper! And mother come over quite queer, she was so surprised.
You were kind in your letter to forgive me for being rude. Who'd ever
have thought you was clever?"
"Who, indeed! But, Gladys, why this get-up? Why are you dressed up in
satin and dark colours on a summer day?"
"Why, mother said a nice navy blue was always useful. I'd rather have
had a Cambridge blue myself. Mother says navy blue's so ladylike. Don't
you like it?"
"Charming. But I don't like what you've done to your hair."
"Don't you, though? Fancy! Well, I don't seem to care much for it
myself. It's a Pompadour, you know--a pad."
"Take it off," said Vaughan.
"Oh, I can't!"
"All right, _I_ will. Come in the field."
"Well, I don't mind if you do. I'll say I took my hair down because it
was heavy."
"You've tried to spoil yourself, but you haven't succeeded. Why did you
do it, Gladys?"
"Seeing you was clever, I thought pr'aps I'd better try to look more
grown-up."
"Ah! what a mistake! Your great charm is that you're such a regular
J.F."
"What's that?"
"A _jeune fille_."
"What does that mean? What's a J.F. in English?"
"A jolly flapper."
"Oh, I say!"
* * * * *
In the field Vaughan, with several interruptions and reproaches for
being a caution, managed to take the pad off her head and to throw it in
the field. But an unfortunate thing happened. All the corn-coloured hair
fell down over his face and he had kissed her--by accident--before he
knew it.
"Oh, I say! You are a caution!" was her only remark. But she did not
laugh, and as she hastily did a little amateur coiffing, he thought she
looked slightly annoyed. At any rate, she hadn't much more to say to
him, and he went back to London almost immediately, feeling quite
absurdly agitated about such an unimportant trifle.
* * * * *
An hour later, when quietly at home in his study, Vaughan was suddenly
seized by that species of madness that has been known to wreck careers, "to
launch a thousand ships," to cause all kinds of chaos. It was that terrible
_once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine-I-must-and-shall-possess-her_
feeling in its most acute form. Most men have known it at some time in
their lives. He thought of Harry de Freyne, and felt noble and superior
in contrast to what _his_ conduct would have been, as he sat down and
wrote with intense pleasure--
"Darling Gladys,
"I love you. Will you marry me? Please try. I'm writing to your
father. Don't keep me waiting long for the answer.
"Yours for always,
"GILLIE."
He then wrote a long and sensible letter to Mr. Brill; all business,
respect, and urgency, saying he knew that Gladys was very young, but
that he would make her happy, and so forth.
These two letters he sent off by express messenger in a taxicab to the
"Bald-faced Stag," and then sat down to dinner.
What a dinner! And what an evening he spent! He planned a long
journey--what fun to show the child new places and things! Why shouldn't
he marry the charming, refined, and beautiful daughter of an
hotel-keeper? He decided even on alterations in the house, and he meant
to be ecstatically happy.
What did he care for people? He had never lived either to _épater_ the
_bourgeois_ or to satisfy the ideal of the gentleman next door. He was
going to do something _he_ liked!...
* * * * *
He woke up the next morning at six o'clock with a ghastly chilly horror
on him. What had he done? Had he been mad? To marry Miss Brill, the
daughter of the landlord of a little suburban public-house! A girl of
sixteen, pretty enough certainly, but with no pretensions to being a
lady, no possibility of having anything in common with him. But it
wasn't so much the question of what people would say--of course, most of
the women he knew would drop him, and the men would laugh at him and
make love to her--but, how long would it last? How long would this
strange mania endure? Perhaps not a week. The poor child would have an
awful time, too. She was much happier as she was.
Well! He was a sportsman, and had taken the risk. He must wait now. At
the back of his mind he was wondering how he could get out of it.
He had not to wait long. His letters were answered by the first post.
Evidently, the "Bald-faced Stag" had been kept up late that night to
reply in time.
Gladys wrote very respectfully that she was very sorry she hadn't told
him before, but she was privately engaged to the son of the landlord of
the Green Man at Stanmore: the Eldest Son, she wrote with pride (as
though he would inherit the title). She was awfully sorry. Besides, she
was going to be a manicure, first, for two years, and then settle down
at Stanmore. Her fiancé was twenty-one. She hoped Mr. Vaughan would come
over to tea very soon, and she thought his letter was very kind, and
remained his truly, Gladys Brill.
Mr. Brill had written a long and slightly rambling letter which
suggested rough copies and even some assistance from the old vintages of
the "Bald-faced Stag." He refused most firmly, though thoroughly
sensible of the honour done him by Mr. Vaughan's offer, but he couldn't
go back on his word to his friend at the Green Man. The arrangement had
been made, when Gladys and the son were in their cradles, by him and
his pal of the Green Man and he couldn't go back on his word. And Gladys
liked the young chap; and it was a great honour, indeed, that Mr.
Vaughan had done them, and it would have been splendid for Gladys in the
worldly sense. But there! it was better, perhaps, not to mix up
Stations. Mr. Brill repeated this sentiment over and over again, always
using a capital S for station--(as though Vaughan had expressed an
insane desire to confuse Victoria with the Great Western). And he
remained very respectfully, Tom Brill.
"A manicure in Bond Street and then the landlady of a common country
inn! Never! She shan't! I'll go down and persuade her. I'll make them
come round."
Vaughan was so hurt and disappointed that he felt he could never smile
again.
But he did.