"H'm," said Miss Ruth, violently biting off a cotton-end. Then she
added, "Barbara was quite upset."
"How sweet of her!" cried Marjolaine.--Dear, sympathetic little Barbara!
"Oh! Not so much about you," said Miss Ruth rather acidly. "But she
looks forward to sitting with you and Mr. Pringle, when you are
singing."
"Is she so fond of music?" asked Marjolaine, glad to turn the
conversation into a less personal channel.
"Bless your dear heart, no!" exclaimed Miss Ruth sharply. "Now, would
she sit and listen to you if she were? She does n't know one note from
another."
It seemed to Marjolaine that the conversation was becoming rather
personal, so she held her tongue.
But Miss Ruth evidently had something on her mind of which she was
anxious to relieve herself.
"No, it is n't that," she said with a world of meaning which challenged
enquiry.
Marjolaine obliged her, although she felt no interest. "What is it,
then?"
Having succeeded in getting the question she wanted, Miss Ruth made a
feint of retreating. "Pfft!" she said, with the action of blowing some
annoying insect away, and then, cryptically, "Oh! grant me patience!"
"Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, astonished at her violence.
"Well!" cried Ruth, still more sharply. "It seems to me the whole house
is bewitched--that ever I should say such a thing."
Marjolaine grew more and more surprised. "Oh! I thought you were so
happy!"
"I 'm happy enough," snapped Ruth, "because I 'm not a fool. But what
with that feller upstairs, and Barbara down, a body has no peace of her
life."
Now, what could she mean? Of course Mr. Pringle was upstairs, and of
course Barbara was downstairs. How could that perfectly natural state
of things affect the peace of Miss Ruth's life?
"Tell me," said Marjolaine.
"Ha' n't you noticed anything? No. I s'pose you 're too young. Don't
know sheeps' eyes when you see 'em!"
What on earth had sheeps' eyes come into the story for?
"Sheeps' eyes?" Marjolaine asked, utterly puzzled.
"'T is n't for me to say anything," Miss Ruth continued, "but with him
mooning about the house, like"--words failed her--"like I don't know
what; and her moping, like a hen with the pip, it's enough to give a
body the fantoddles--as my poor, dear mother used to say."
[Illustration: "IT'S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES, AS MY POOR
DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"]
Marjolaine suddenly saw light. Here, under her very eyes, was another
romance, like her own--only, of course, on an infinitely lower plane,
because it held no thread of tragedy--and she had been blind to it.
This was lovely! But she must make sure. She turned to Miss Ruth and
asked eagerly--"Are they--are they fond of each other?"
Ruth quite unnecessarily bit off another cotton-end. "I don't know!"
she cried crossly; but at once added, "Yes, of course they are!"
Marjolaine was more puzzled than ever. "Then, why don't they say so?"
she asked, quite simply.
"That's what I want to know," said Miss Ruth.
Lovers who might be perfectly happy, kept apart for want of a word,
thought Marjolaine. How wicked, and how silly! "You should speak to Mr.
Basil," she said, with all the gravity of her nineteen years and of her
bitter experience.
"Me!" cried Miss Ruth. "Bless your dear heart, he 'd up and run away.
He 's that shy a body can't look at him but he wants to hide in a
cupboard. He 's got it into his silly head he is n't good enough. As
if anybody'd notice his shoulder!"
"Perhaps," said Marjolaine, pensively, "if Barbara showed him she liked
him--Why don't you speak to her? Sympathetically."
"So I did, just now. Told her she was an idiot. What did she do? She
burst out crying, and went and shut herself up with that parrot."
"Ah!" sighed Marjolaine, with a pathetic look at the Gazebo, where she
had been so happy so short a time, so long ago, "Ah, yes! The old love!"
How well she understood!
"Old frying-pan!" cried Ruth.
"Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, deeply shocked. "The poor parrot."
"Oh, that bird!--Marjory!" said Ruth, firmly, as if the time had come to
utter a bitter but necessary truth at all costs, "Marjory, there are
times when I 'd give anybody a two-penny bit to wring that bird's neck!"
But Marjolaine had not been listening to her. The mention of the parrot
had set her thoughts working; her face suddenly lighted up with the
inspired look of one who has just conceived an epoch-making idea.
"Ruth!" she cried, running up to her.
Ruth naturally thought she was shocked. "Well, I don't care! I mean it.
If it was n't for that bird--"
But Marjolaine had snatched Ruth's needlework away and was trying to
drag her from the seat by both hands. "I was n't thinking of the bird!
Yes, I was thinking of the bird, but I was n't thinking what you thought
I was thinking. Oh! what nonsense you make me talk!"
"Whatever's got into the child's head?" cried Miss Ruth, swept off her
feet.
"Come!" insisted Marjolaine. "Quick! Come, and tell Barbara I want
her."
"What do you want her for?" asked Miss Ruth, struggling.
"I must n't tell you yet, she may refuse."
"Bless us and save us!" cried Miss Ruth, now on her feet, and struck by
the change in Marjolaine's appearance, "now your cheeks are glowing
again!"
"Maman said they would!" laughed Marjolaine. Positively, for the moment
she had forgotten her sorrows. "Come along!"
"Wait! My mouth 's full of pins!"
Seeing the two ladies under the tree, Sir Peter Antrobus had come out,
anxious for a little conversation. He was much disappointed when he
observed they were leaving the lawn.
"Going in, just as I'm coming out?" said he, reproachfully.
"Yes," laughed Marjolaine on the top step, and looking up at the
threatening sky, "like the little people in the weather cottages: you
come out for the rain; and I go in for the sunshine." Which, of course
was extremely inaccurate, but the correct statement would have spoiled
her meaning entirely.
"How are the peas coming on, Admiral?" asked Miss Ruth, for the sake of
politeness.
Sir Peter's temper was already ruffled by the disappointment of his
sociable intentions. Now he burst out, "How the doose can they come on,
Ma'am, when that everlasting cat roots 'em up every night?"
I am sorry to say, Miss Ruth laughed as he disappeared into the house.
The Admiral came towards Sempronius, who was now wide awake and watching
the Eyesore's float with lively interest; he shook his fist at him--I
mean the Admiral shook his fist at the cat--with comic fury, and found
himself shaking his fist at Lord Otford, who had just turned the corner.
"Shaking your fist at me, Peter?" asked Lord Otford, with a grim laugh.
"Hulloa, Otford!" cried the Admiral, feeling rather foolish.
Moreover, he was not particularly pleased to see Otford at that precise
moment. Only half-an-hour ago he had surprised Marjolaine's confidence.
He had not had time to think the matter over and make up his mind, and
now that he found himself without warning face to face with Jack's
father, he was torn between two conflicting emotions. On the one hand
he felt he ought to tell Otford about Jack and Marjolaine. That was his
plain duty; but it was one of those forms of duty which everybody tries
to find some plausible excuse for evading. He had surprised
Marjolaine's confidence: she had not given it voluntarily. On the other
hand he suspected that Jack's breach of faith in not coming near the
Walk for a whole week was due to some interference on the part of his
father, and he was so fond of Marjolaine, and so jealous of the status
of the Walk, that he resented such interference even before he knew
whether Otford had interfered. His keen eye saw, even while they were
shaking hands, that there was something on his friend's mind.
"How are you?" asked Lord Otford, perfunctorily. "Have you a moment to
spare?"
"All day; thanks to this confounded government," growled the Admiral.
Lord Otford plunged into the thick of his business at once. "I am in
great trouble," he blurted out, in the tone of a man who expects
sympathy.
He didn't get it. "Damme! you're in trouble once a week!" said the
Admiral. "Here! Come into the Gazebo."