DAVID DINES AT THE CASTLE
WHEN John, with Corin in his wake, entered the drawing-room of Delancey
Castle that evening, he glanced anxiously around. He had no real
cause for anxiety. He was a good ten minutes in advance of the hour
mentioned, having led a protesting Corin up the hill at a fine pace.
Mrs. Trimwell had seen them depart, her face an amazed and horrified
note of interrogation.
“You’re dining with her ladyship!” she had gasped.
“We are,” John had assured her.
“You aren’t never going up to dine at the Castle in them clothes!” she
had ejaculated.
“We dine,” John had said smiling, “in these very clothes that you now
perceive upon us.”
“Land sakes!” Mrs. Trimwell had gasped. And words failing her, either
from horror, or lack of imagination, she had mutely watched them
depart.
They had started betimes; they had also, as I have stated, walked at
a fine pace; and now, somewhat heated, they found themselves shaking
hands with Lady Mary, while the clock yet wanted some ten minutes of
seven-thirty.
But, so argued John, surveying the said clock, half an hour, even an
hour too soon, was infinitely preferable to one minute too late. It was
the first moment of meeting that would set the keynote to the whole
evening. It was at that first psychological moment that the easement of
his presence was necessary. Corin, he considered as quite beside the
mark, you perceive.
Father Maloney was already present. He was seated in the window-seat
with Antony and Michael, who had been granted half an hour’s furlough
from bed.
And now came the moments of suspense,--an anxious waiting. Corin and
the two boys alone were absolutely at their ease. Corin, having engaged
Rosamund in conversation, was expatiating on his day’s work. John, his
eyes on the clock, his ear alert for the opening of a door, talked
to Lady Mary. It is fairly certain that her eyes and her ears were
likewise occupied.
“I hear from the boys that you were present at the _cache_ this
afternoon,” said she smiling.
John laughed.
“It was a fairy-tale scene,” quoth he. “I wouldn’t have missed it for
worlds. It isn’t often an imaginative conception works so successfully.”
“In this instance,” she reminded him, “there was the Celtic temperament
to deal with. Nothing is beyond the imagination of a Celt, I fancy.”
“No,” said John musingly. And then, “Not as criticism, but merely as
query, I wonder how far it is justifiable to play upon it?”
“You mean that Molly’s imagination was played upon?”
“Yes.”
“I fancy,” said Lady Mary, “that the human element comes into most
of our material rewards. It is the agency by which they are worked.
In this case the human agency merely hid itself beneath a fantastic
garb, thereby adding a subtle pleasure to the reward. I don’t know
whether Molly believes in her heart of hearts that the fairies had
been at work, any more than I’ll vouch for Tony’s and Michael’s belief
in Santa Claus filling their stockings. I fancy there are many things
the pleasure of which is enhanced by their being shrouded in the soft
light of imagination, rather than by their being dragged forth to the
somewhat garish light of fact. There’s no lack of truth in keeping them
shrouded. There is, after all, no necessity to be merely blatant.”
“No,” laughed John.
“Most children,” went on Lady Mary, “have a subtle power of
imagination. If you were to bring them to hard bed-rock fact, they’d
own to the imagination, though probably reluctantly.”
“I know,” said John, “a willow wand is not a spear, neither is a
broomstick a horse, nor a twisted tree-trunk a dragon, and you know it.
But when you ride forth on the horse, armed with the spear, to kill the
dragon, you suffer some terrible and indefinable loss when the actual
facts of the case are set before you in faultless English by an all
too-truthful aunt.”
“You see,” smiled Lady Mary.
“I see,” said John, “and I withdraw my query, or, rather, you have
answered it.”
There was a silence, and again they both waited. They made no attempt
to break the silence. It could only have been broken now by some
entirely futile remark, and neither John nor Lady Mary was in the mood
for such remarks.
John looked in the direction of Rosamund and Corin. He saw that the
former glanced towards the door every now and again, and back from it
to the clock. The minutes seemed interminably slow in their passing.
And then, suddenly, footsteps were heard in the hall without. John’s
heart leaped; Lady Mary’s face was pale; Rosamund was smiling; Father
Maloney looked up from the little tin soldier he was examining.
The door opened and the butler appeared on the threshold. He muttered
something. Certainly his speech was not his usual clear enunciation.
John, seeing his solemnly injured expression, felt a sudden desire to
laugh. Lady Mary certainly smiled. And then David Delancey entered the
room.
Of course the actuality wasn’t half, or a quarter, as bad as the
anticipation. In two minutes the introductions were over. John had
shaken hands; everyone had shaken hands; Antony, in a clear treble, had
informed the guest that it was on his account alone that he and Michael
had been granted half an hour’s furlough from bed. The announcement
broke the ice, so to speak; if, indeed, there had been any to break.
Probably there wasn’t any. There had been a sudden thaw the moment the
solemnly injured butler had appeared upon the threshold.
And David himself was so utterly simple. To his direct mind the
invitation alone had conveyed sufficient assurance of his welcome. Why
on earth should it have been issued else? There you have your child all
over. He may hesitate to intrude for fear of a snub; but, once let an
invitation be given, snubbing does not enter into the category at all.
Such conventionalities as enforced politeness do not enter his mind. Of
course Lady Mary was as pleased to welcome him as David was to make her
acquaintance. It was _sine qua non_ to the present situation.
I don’t say it hadn’t surprised him. He had been extremely surprised.
It wasn’t in the least the way he saw himself acting had he been in
Lady Mary’s place. Nevertheless he saw entire genuineness in her
action.