He was entirely at a loss. He had spoken on the spur of the moment.
All the past had suddenly risen up before him, all his youth had come
flooding back. The birds sang in the old vicarage garden; his
experiences, his worldly honours, sank from him, and he was a lad again,
deeply in love; and here stood his first sweetheart--his only
sweetheart--the woman who meant youth and spring-time and all the ideals
of boyhood. He bowed his head. "I--I don't know. I am stunned!--After
all these years!"
She was merciless. Also she was on her guard. She must not let herself
be defeated by sentimentality. As she looked at him and saw him
standing humbled before her, a still small voice in her heart cried out
in pity. That would never do. He had blighted her youth; his son had
hurt Marjolaine. She must remember. She must be firm. So she silenced
the appealing voice and spoke with an admirable assumption of lightness.
"Why, what does it all amount to? After all these years Lord Otford
meets Madame Lachesnais. These are not the Jack Sayle and the Lucy Pryor
who loved, years ago. He does not meet a broken-hearted woman pining
for her lost girlhood, but," she drew herself up and her voice grew
firmer, "but one who has been a happy wife, and a happy mother--and a
mother who will defend her daughter's happiness." Then the mockery
returned, intensified. "So there is no cause for such a tragic
countenance, my lord!"
Otford winced. He was humbled; he was angry with himself, and angry
with her. "Madam," said he, "I am well rebuked. I wish you a very good
day!" He made her a very low bow, and turned on his heel. Inwardly he
was raging, and when, at the corner of the Walk, he ran right into the
Eyesore who was innocently returning to his fishing, that unfortunate
creature received the full force of his anger in a muttered but none the
less hearty curse.
Madame stood where he had left her. Now that he was gone, she realised
how the meeting had shaken her. Twenty years, and more, and he was
scarcely changed! The same lithe figure; the same handsome face, with
the bold eyes; the same appeal which had drawn her heart to him in the
old days. The long interval which had elapsed, with all its varied
adventures; her marriage, the Revolution, her husband's death, seemed
merely an episode. She and Jack had parted yesterday, so it seemed, and
to-day they had met again. She was dismayed at realising the sway he
still held. The same sway as ever. It took the strength out of her
limbs. She leaned against the summer-house in distress. This was
unbearable. She must fight. The old pain must not be allowed to seize
her in its grip. Jack Sayle was dead, buried and forgotten, and she
would not let him come to life again.
Meanwhile Mrs. Poskett had opened her upstairs window and was leaning
out. The sky was very threatening; there was going to be a
thunder-storm; and there crouched that foolish cat of hers, oblivious of
the weather, watching the Eyesore. "Sempronius!" she called. "Puss!
Puss! Puss!"
But Sempronius had more urgent business than attending to his mistress's
voice. A miracle had happened: the Eyesore had caught a fish!
Sempronius looked on with eager interest as the Eyesore disengaged his
prey from the hook and laid it on the grass. Yes; he would go in, said
Sempronius to himself, making sure that the downstairs window of his
mistress's house was open; he would go in presently, when he had safely
stalked that fish. Not before.
The Admiral also had seen the skies darken. It was time to take in the
thrush. So he leant out of his upstairs window to unhook the osier
cage. His window and Mrs. Poskett's were so close together
that--well--the Admiral and the widow could, at a pinch, have kissed if
they had been so minded. But nothing was further from, the Admiral's
thoughts.
"Sempronius!" screamed Mrs. Poskett.
"Ah!" chuckled the Admiral, "it's no use calling him, ma'am. He 's got
his eye on the fish!"
"You don't mean to say the Eyesore's caught one!" cried Mrs. Poskett.
The Admiral laughed as he looked at the Eyesore. Laughed more than the
occasion seemed to justify. "Ay, ay! he's wonderfully patient and
persistent!"
The widow's face, as he leant out to see the fish, was very near the
Admiral's.
"Astonishing what patience and persistence 'll do, Admiral," said she,
coquettishly. She withdrew quickly and closed her window.
The Admiral was puzzled. What did she mean? But he shook off his
forebodings. He turned to where the Eyesore, buried more than usual in
his horrible old hat, was putting on new bait, and gave a low whistle.
The Eyesore signalled to him to be quiet and at that moment he became
aware of Madame, who was moving away from the Gazebo. "Gobblessmysoul!
Madame!" he muttered to himself with inexplicable confusion, and hastily
withdrew out of sight with his thrush.
Miss Barbara Pennymint came hopping down her steps, followed by
Marjolaine. Madame had recovered her self-possession. "Ah!" she cried,
seeing Marjolaine, "I was a little alarmed about you. Did you not hear
me call?"
"No, Maman cherie."
Madame turned to Barbara. "Don't let her stay out if it rains." And
with a pleasant nod to the two girls she moved into her house. She had
need to be alone.
Marjolaine and Barbara locked their arms round each others' waists and
came across the lawn.
Barbara turned up her pretty nose. "The Eyesore looks more revolting
than ever!"
"Dreadful," assented Marjolaine, with a shudder. At this instant the
Eyesore caught another fish! and Marjolaine gave a cry of surprise.
Sempronius sat and watched.
"What's he doing now?" asked Barbara, in a whisper.
Marjolaine looked. Then she covered Barbara's eyes with her hand.
"Don't look!" and in a tragic whisper, "He's putting on a worm!"
"Oh!" cried Barbara, with a shiver of disgust. They came down to the
elm.
"It was impossible," said Marjolaine, "to talk in Ruth's presence, with
Doctor Johnson screaming in the next room."
"Dearest," answered Barbara confidentially, "shall I confess that
sometimes that bird--" she broke off--"but no! it were disloyal. Only,
if Charles had given me a lock of his hair, perhaps it would have made
less noise. Yet, now I think of it, that is a selfish wish, for he had
been scalped."
"How dreadful!" cried Marjolaine. But she was full of her great idea,
and went on at once. "Barbara, were you very much in love?"
Barbara's face grew very serious. "Dearest," she said reproachfully,
"is that quite a delicate question?"
"Well," said Marjolaine, "I mean, are you still as much in love as
ever?"
Barbara avoided her eyes. But she spoke with almost exaggerated
feeling. "Dearest! Do you think love can change?"
Marjolaine thought a moment. I suppose she was consulting her own
heart. Then she spoke very firmly. "No! I don't think so!"
"And do I not hear the sound of my darling's voice every time Doctor
Johnson yells? Is not that enough to keep the flame of love alive even
in the ashes of a heart however dead? Oh! if only that innocent fowl
had been present when Charles used different language!"
"But did he?" asked Marjolaine innocently.
"I sometimes wonder," answered Barbara, deep in thought.
Marjolaine felt she had said a tactless thing. She must try to soften
it. "Perhaps the loss of his hair--" she began.
"Yes," assented Barbara. "But he concealed the honourable scar under a
lovely wig." She turned her eyes fondly to Basil's window from which
the familiar passage from the slow movement of the Kreutzer Sonata came
throbbing. "And--oh, dearest!--can any physical infirmity affect true
love?" she cried rapturously.
At last she was coming to the point Marjolaine had been insidiously
leading up to. Marjolaine watched her closely. "I suppose not."
"I am quite sure it cannot!" cried Barbara with a burst of enthusiasm.
Marjolaine took both Barbara's hands in hers and forced her to face her.
She spoke very earnestly. "Barbara, why are you quite sure?"
Barbara instantly fell into a pretty state of confusion. "Dearest!--how
searching you are!"
"Tell me!" insisted Marjolaine, "why are you quite sure?"
Barbara looked this way and that; toyed with the lace on Marjolaine's
sleeve; and said quite irrelevantly, "Dearest--did your mother match
those lovely silks?"
Marjolaine was not to be put off. "Mr. Basil plays the violin
beautifully," she said.
Barbara fluttered exactly like a sparrow taking a sand-bath. She hopped
all round Marjolaine. "Oh, dearest!" she chirped. "Oh, you wicked
dearest! You have guessed my secret!" Then, if I may put it that way,
she perched on Marjolaine's finger and pecked her on each cheek.
"I was sure before I guessed!" laughed Marjolaine.
The Eyesore caught another fish; and, what was equally astonishing, for
the first time in his life, he moved from his accustomed place and came
nearer the girls.
Barbara put on as solemn a face as she could contrive. "Promise you
will never tell a living soul?"
"Look!" cried Marjolaine, "the Eyesore's caught another fish!"
"Poor darling!" exclaimed Barbara.
Marjolaine gave her a horrified look. "You are not in love with the
Eyesore, too!"
"I meant the fish!" explained Barbara, "to be drawn out of the watery
element."
"Ah," said Marjolaine, wisely, "that comes of a fondness for worms."
"Worms!" repeated Barbara, lugubriously. "Ah, worms!--I shall let the
worm i' the bud feed on my damaged cheek."
The two were now sitting on the bench under the elm, and twittering
together like little love-birds. The Eyesore came nearer.
"Barbara," said Marjolaine, with meaning, "suppose Mr. Basil's cheek is
being fed on, too?"
"Dearest, that is impossible," said Barbara.
Marjolaine sat nearer and spoke more confidentially. "Suppose I know it
is?"
Barbara pushed her away and looked at her. "You wonderful child!" Then
she added, shortly, "Then why does n't he speak?"
"Suppose he 's too shy?"
Barbara appealed to the universe. "Oh! are n't men silly?"--She
luxuriated in her sense of tragedy. "Then we must look and long."