It was the next day, and quite an ideal one for late September,
though that is perhaps the least capricious month of all the
year. Still Mrs Poynter hardly knew what to do with her guests.
When one has been playing tennis steadily from the 1st of May to
the 19th of September, even that best of games begins to pall a
little. And people came so early in September--at half-past
three some of them, because the daylight faded so soon. It was
quite a relief to her when Dicky suggested the houses. But,
unfortunately, the suggestion fell flat. Just a few went, but the
majority remained.
Mrs. Greatorex, indeed, was too comfortable to stir, and Elfrida
was too amused. She had Lord Ambert leaning over her on the left,
and she had enticed the curate into an argument on her right. She
felt perfectly happy. She was never happier than when she was
annoying Ambert, who was to be her husband in a month or so.
As for Mr. Browne, though he had suggested the grapes, he made no
movement in their direction. He, too, was quite in his element.
He was teasing the children with all his might.
Mrs. Poynter, if she were ever jealous of other people's
possessions, at all events had no occasion to be jealous with
them about their children. Her own were perfect--little
creatures of delight! Their manners, however, were not their
strong point.
Vera, the youngest, sat on Mr. Browne's right knee, and Henry on
his left. They held a book in their hands. It contained the poems
of Dr. Watts. Their mother, who was one of the most thoughtless
people in the world, was evidently determined that _they_ should
think, with a vengeance.
Dicky could see, however, that the little maiden on his knee
hated the book.
"Go on, read us something," said Henry.
"Don't," said Vera, "it's a pig of a book."
"Hold your tongue, Vera," said Henry, whose education was not
altogether completed. He nudged Dicky. "Go on," said he, and
Dicky began:--
"Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so---"
"I don't believe it," said Vera, who was on for battle; "God
wouldn't."
"Yes, He would. He's made lots of things that fight. Lions and
tigers and Pappy."
Captain Poynter was a soldier, and had served with some
distinction in the Egyptian War.
"Well _I_ don't want to fight," said Vera, shaking her blonde
head. She wriggled down off Dicky's lap, and ran to Agatha, who
was close to her, and unfortunately very close to every one else,
too. "I want to love peoples. Don't you, Aggie? Do _you_ love
peoples, Aggie?"
"I do indeed--lots of peoples," said Agatha, drawing the child
on to her knee. "I love you for one."
"Oh, me!" It was plain to the public that Miss Vera thought it
would be a poor person indeed who did not bow the knee to her.
"But not all the other peoples?"
"Yes, I love all the other peoples, too."
"That's not true, for mammy says that you're beastly unkind
to---"
"Vera!" cried a shocked mamma.
Mrs. Poynter rose and came forward, but Miss Vera was evidently
not afraid of her mammy. She kicked out her pretty silk-clad
legs, and went on quite calmly:
"She says you're very nasty to Dr. Darkham, but that you _do_
love Dr. Dillwyn."
The little, sweet, shrill voice carried very far--too far. Mrs.
Greatorex looked up.
As for Mrs. Poynter, she was crimson. She was afraid to look at
Agatha, who felt as if her heart was going to stop beating. She
bent over Vera--who was playing with her bangles, all unconscious
of the bombshell she had just discharged--to hide her face. Mrs.
Poynter was speaking to the child: "Vera, how naughty! You are a
very bold child."
"'Be bolde, be bolde, and everywhere be bolde,'" quoted Mr.
Browne promptly. He picked up the small sinner from Agatha's lap
and perched her on his shoulder. "I say let's go down and see
what they are doing on the courts."
Agatha eagerly rose and went with him. When they had reached the
courts the children ran away, and Agatha turned a very distressed
face to him.
"Wasn't it unfortunate?" she said. "I am sure Aunt Hilda heard
her. Why should the child have said just the wrong thing?"
"Give him a hint. Tell him to be sensible for once in his life,
and keep out of her way."
"If I could do that."
"Well, why can't you? When is he coming?"
"He said he would be here at half-past four, and that he"--here
she grew prettily shamefaced and very red--"would meet me in
the little alley behind the rhododendrons over there. You know
there is a gateway in there from the road."
"We've got ten minutes," said Mr. Browne, after a brief
consultation with his watch. "Let us go and sit in the alley and
circumvent Aunt Hilda."
It was quite easy to skirt around the players and enter the
pretty secluded walk that led to nowhere but the high road--a
mere cul-de-sac that made it unpopular with most young people.
But Agatha liked the high road, for that good white winding
ribbon would bring her her Jack.
"Now let us talk about it," said he comfortably.
"There's nothing to talk about," said Agatha mournfully. "Aunt
Hilda is determined I shall marry Dr. Darkham, and I am
determined that I shan't. That is all."
"Far from it. There is the other side of the question to be
considered also," said Mr. Browne, assuming a magisterial air.
"Aunt Hilda is determined that you shan't marry Dr. Dillwyn, and
you are determined that you will. What price the winner? I back
you."
"Well, I shall not give in," said she with a smile. She looked
very sad, however. "I wish I were not under such obligations to
her."
"What nonsense! As if she were not under obligations to you! I
expect it must have been a real treat to her when you got under
her roof."
"Oh no. I have only been a burden."
"Modesty can go too far. I can tell you that the very fact of
your having saved her from loneliness repays all your debt to
her. Don't be down-hearted about your obligations in that
direction."
"Still---"
"You've got too much conscience," said Mr. Browne. "You're
over-ballasted; I'd throw a little overboard if I were you. And
I'd keep clear of Darkham, anyway. He's got a nasty turn of jaw."
"He's nasty every way," said Agatha, sighing. "But, then, what am
I to do? Aunt Hilda is so angry, and poor Jack is---"
"_Poor!_ It's a conundrum," said Mr. Browne thoughtfully. "But
there must be ways of solving it."
Here he turned and caught sight of something--some one--
between the branches of the rhododendrons. Dicky knew him at
once. It was the tall young doctor standing at the gate. Why did
he not come on? Dicky in a moment guessed that conundrum, at all
events. Dillwyn had come there to meet Agatha alone, and was
waiting for him to go away. Mr. Browne felt, with a distinct
acceleration of spirit, that Dillwyn did not know who Agatha's
companion was at the moment. It is sometimes hard to distinguish
people through swaying branches.
It was perhaps a little unfortunate that Nature had endowed Dicky
at his birth with the spirit of mischief. It is so difficult to
strangle Nature's gifts.
"We must wait, I suppose," said Agatha.
Mr. Browne cast a backward glance toward the little gate.
"_He_ must wait anyway," said he sadly.
"We must both wait."
"Oh, not both!"--with a sidelong glance towards the silent
figure half seen through the branches. "It is you who are keeping
_him_ waiting."
"You are wrong, indeed, Dicky," said the girl earnestly. "We
shall wait together. I don't mind that."
"_He_ might, however; especially as you are _not_ together." A
slight movement in the hawthorn bush that stood beside the gate
emphasised this remark.
"That makes no difference," said Agatha sweetly. "We are content
to wait apart."
"Yet Dillwyn doesn't strike me as being a modern Job," said Mr.
Browne, who could see Dillwyn marching up and down before the
gate in a distinctly impatient style. He had not yet recognised
Dicky, and he knew Agatha had by agreement come there to meet
him, and was probably doing all in her power to get rid of her
troublesome companion. There was a "Will he never go away?" sort
of air about him that unhappily amused Dicky.
"I told you you did not understand him--did not sympathise with
him," said Agatha reproachfully.
"I do! I do!" Dicky's voice grew tearful. "Waiting for the
beloved one is melancholy work; it demands all one's sympathies.
I can at this moment,"--here Dicky grew almost tragic--"enter
into all his feelings. I feel with him. It may seem painful to
you, Agatha, but I assure you I can actually _see_ him as he
waits."
"How kind, how good you are, Dicky!"
"But you," said Mr. Browne frantically, "are _you_ good or kind?
Is it not cruel of you to keep him waiting as you do?" Again his
eye peered through the bushes, and again he saw Dillwyn pacing to
and fro.
"But what can I do?"--tearfully.
"Go to him!"--nobly.
"Oh, Dicky! How can I go?"
"My dear girl, the road is open before you."
"That shows," said she, sighing faintly, "how little you know
about it. No, we must wait."
"Wait! It's been a good long wait already," said Mr. Browne, who
really ought to have been ashamed of himself, "How much longer is
it to go on?"
"I don't know," dejectedly.
"Already, I expect, he is beginning to think it a century."
"Poor dear Jack!" said she.
"He's getting jolly tired, you know."
At this Agatha flushed and looked at him. There was indignation
in her glance.
"You _don't_ know," said she. "You know nothing at all about it.
And he is _not_ getting tired. You shouldn't talk about things of
which you know nothing--absolutely nothing."
"Of course you ought to know more about it than I do. I accept
the back seat. I am not your other self--that's how he puts it,
isn't it? But for all that"--with a stealing glance to the rear
--"it seems to me that he is growing impatient."
"Oh, Dicky, I think you shouldn't say such things as that." Tears
rose to her eyes.
"What else _can_ I say?"
"To hint that he is impatient---"
"So he is."
"That sounds as if he were discontented."
"So he is."
"He is _not_"--angrily.
"Well, my dear girl, when one sees a fellow lifting first one leg
and then the other, and craning his neck over a gate until one
fears for the vertebrae of it, one naturally does accuse him of
impatience."
"He? Who?" Agatha started, and sprang to her feet and looked
round.
"Why Dillwyn. I'm certain _he_ feels as if he had been waiting a
century. I'll swear that _he_ is growing impatient. He,"--with
a gentle wave of his arm towards the gateway--"has been dancing
a _pas seul_ there for the last ten minutes!"
Agatha looked at him for a moment only. Then she turned aside.
"I think you might have told me!" said she, her voice quick with
anger.
"I might--I might," said Mr. Browne, with truly noble
acquiescence. "But you said, dear Agatha, that he was not to be
here for ten minutes, and I thought it might be bad for you to
see him too soon."
She was not listening to him, however. She had gone towards the
gate.
Dicky with a resigned smile lit a cigarette, and started for
"fresh fields and pastures new."