They parted at Victoria, and Mrs. Halton drove straight to Lady
Nottingham's, leaving her maid to claim and capture her luggage. She had
not known till she returned to London how true a Londoner she was at
heart, how closely the feel and sense of the great grey dirty city was
knit into her self. For it was the soil out of which had grown all the
things in her life which "counted" or were significant; it had been the
scene of all her great joys and sorrows, and to-day all those who made
up her intimate life, friends and lover, were gathered here.
There were many other places in the world to which she felt grateful:
sunny hillsides overlooking the spires of Florence; cool woods on the
Italian Riviera through which stirred the fresh breezes off the dim blue
sea below; galleries and churches of Venice, and the grey-green
stretches of its lagoons. To all these her debt of gratitude was deep,
for it was in them, and through their kindly sunny aid, that during the
last year she had recaptured peace and content.
But her gratitude to them was not of the quality of love; she felt
rather towards them as a patient feels towards the doctors and nurses to
whose ministrations he owes his return of health and the removal of the
fever which, while it lasted, came between himself and the whole world,
making all things strange and unreal. And then, just for a moment, a
little shudder passed over her as she thought of the sharp-edged,
shining streets of Paris through which she had passed with downcast,
averted eyes that morning, going straight from station to station and
hating every moment of her passage.
It was hard to forgive Paris for associations which it held for her of
a certain fortnight; it was hard to believe even now that those bitter
and miserable hours contained no more than the pain by which it was
necessary that a dear and erring soul should be taught its lessons. But
at heart she did not doubt that, though she could not forgive Paris for
being the scene of those infinitely sad and pitiful memories. Then she
shook those thoughts off; they concerned that past which was absolutely
dead in so far as it was painful and bitter, and lived only in the
greater tenderness and pity of which her own soul was so full.
There was an affectionate little note of greeting and welcome for her
from Lady Nottingham, which was at once given her, and even as she read
it somewhere overhead a door opened, and like a whirlwind Daisy
descended.
"Oh, Aunt Jeannie," she cried, "how heavenly! Oh, it is quite good
enough to be true. You darling person! I have never liked anything
nearly as much as this minute."
Daisy made a sort of Bacchante of herself as she took her aunt up to the
drawing-room, dancing round her, and ever and again rushing in upon her
for another kiss.
"And I managed everything too beautifully," she said. "Aunt Alice wasn't
sure if she wouldn't put off an engagement in order to be here when you
arrived, and I said she oughtn't to. I put it on moral grounds, and
packed her and Gladys off. And I didn't care half a row of pins for
moral grounds, I only just wanted to get the first half-hour with you
all to myself. And if you aren't pleased at my plan I shall burst into
several tears."
Aunt Jeannie took the dear face between her hands.
"I couldn't have thought of a better plan myself," she said, "and, as
you know, I am rather proud of my plans when I really give my mind to
them. Oh, Daisy, it _is_ good to see you! I don't think a day has
passed without my just longing to have a glimpse at you."
"Oh, is that all?" said Daisy. "I know a day hasn't passed without my
longing to have many glimpses."
"You dear child! You shall have such a lot. And what a lot you will have
to tell me; I shall want to know exactly what you have done, and whether
you've been wise and good and kind, and what new friends you have. I
shall want to see them all, and make friends with them all. And I shall
want to know all your plans. Just think, Daisy, it's a year since I saw
you."
"I know, but I don't believe it. Oh, Aunt Jeannie, you must come down to
Bray for Whitsuntide. Gladys and I go to-morrow just to look round and
see that everything is all right, and you and Aunt Alice are to come the
next day with all the party, and it will be such fun. Oh! I've got such
a lot to tell you."
Daisy paused a moment.
"I think I mean quite the opposite," she said. "I don't think that I've
anything whatever to tell you that's of the very smallest importance. I
only just want to babble and be glad. I am glad, oh, so frightfully
glad! You are the nicest aunt that anybody ever had."
Daisy poured out tea for her aunt, and considering her admission that
she had nothing to say, made a very substantial job of it. Yet all the
time she was talking with a reservation, having clearly made up her mind
not to mention Lord Lindfield's name. She felt sure, if she did, Aunt
Jeannie would see that she mentioned him somehow differently from the
way in which she mentioned others, and these first moments of meeting,
for all the sincerity of her joy to see her, struck her as not suitable
for confidences.
"Another reason why I wanted half an hour with you," she said, "is that
I am dining out to-night, and shan't see you. It is quite too
disgusting, but I couldn't help myself; and if one dines out one
probably dances, you know, so after this I shan't see you at all till
to-morrow. Oh, Aunt Jeannie, what a nice world it is! I am glad I
happened to be born. And you are looking so young, I can't think why
everybody doesn't want to marry you at once. They probably do."
Mrs. Halton's engagement was at present a secret, for it was still only
just a year since her husband's death, and though that had been a
release merciful both to him and her, her wisdom had rightly decided
that the event should not be announced yet. They were to be married in
the autumn, and the news need not be made public immediately. One
reservation she had made, namely, that she would tell Lady Nottingham;
but Daisy, even Daisy, must not know at present.
She laughed.
"They have a remarkable power of keeping their desires to themselves,
then," she said. "Dover pier"--and she smiled inwardly as she said
it--"was not thick with aspirants for my rather large hand. But as we
are on the subject, Daisy, what about Mr. Carton?"
Daisy looked at her imploringly.
"Oh, don't!" she said. "There is nothing more to tell you than what I
have written to you. He's so much too good for me that I should feel
uncomfortably inferior, which is never pleasant. Oh, Aunt Jeannie,
what a fraud I am! That isn't the reason a bit--and the reason is
simply that I don't want to. It sounds so easy to understand, doesn't
it, when it's stated like that, but poor darling Willie finds it so
difficult to grasp. I had to say it all over again three times last
Monday. It isn't that I feel inferior to him. If I did, it might mean
that I was in love with him, because people always say that they
aren't the least worthy when they fully intend to marry each other.
No. I don't want to, that's all; and if I am to be an old maid with a
canary--well, I shall be an old maid with a canary, which I shall
instantly sell, because they make such a row, don't they? Do you think
we might talk about something else?"
It was scarcely necessary for Daisy to add the last sentence, for
without pause she proceeded to do so. At the back of her mind Mrs.
Halton felt that there was something behind this, but since Daisy
clearly did not desire to speak of it, she would be committing the
crime--almost unpardonable between friends--of attempting to force a
confidence, if she showed the slightest eagerness to hear more or even
let her manner betray that she thought there was more to be heard.
Besides, she had her own secret from Daisy. It would be a meanness to
deny to others the liberty she claimed herself.
Lady Nottingham came in soon after this, and before long the two girls
had to go and dress for their dinner. Daisy, in the highest spirits,
rushed in again to say good-night to the aunts before starting, a
ravishing figure.
"Good-night, darling Aunt Jeannie," she cried. "Yes, my frock is nice,
isn't it?--and it cost twopence-halfpenny! Wasn't it a cheap shop?
Silver has gone down in value, you see, so much, and green was always
cheap. It's too heavenly to think that I shall come back to the house
where you are. Usually I hate coming back from balls."
A cab was waiting for them, and Daisy pulled the window down with a
jerk.
"She's a darling!" she exclaimed, "and I want to tell her everything,
Gladys, yet not one word did I say about Lord Lindfield. I have a
perfectly good reason as to why I did not in my own mind, but it doesn't
happen to be the right one. I say to myself that I wish to tell her
nothing until there is really something to tell. But that isn't the real
reason. Do you generally have a good reason _and_ a real reason? I
always do. Then you can use either and satisfy anybody. I think I must
be a hypocrite. The real reason is that I think she would see that I
wasn't in love with him. Well, I'm not--but I'm going to be. I shall
tell her then."
"Is he going to be at the Streathams to-night?" asked Gladys.
"Yes, of course. That's why I am going. If he wasn't, I should say I was
ill, and stop at home with Aunt Jeannie. Darling, if you look shocked I
shall be sick! Every girl wants to see the man she intends to marry as
often as possible. But most girls don't say so; that is why, as a sex,
we are such unutterable humbugs. Men are so much more sensible. They
say, 'She's a ripper!' or 'a clipper!'--or whatever is the word in
use--'and I shall go and call on that cad of a woman with whom she is
dining on Thursday next, in order to be asked to dinner.' That's
sensible; there's no nonsense about it. But girls pretend it happens by
accident. As if anything happened by accident! They plot and scheme in
just the same way, only they aren't frank about it. We want to marry
certain men just as much as they want to marry us, and yet we pretend
they do it all. You pretend. You try to look shocked because I don't.
Here we are! Oh, do get out! No, you needn't hurry. He's coming up the
pavement now. If you get out quick he won't see us--me, I mean!"
This slogging diplomacy was successful. Lord Lindfield got opposite the
house exactly as Daisy stepped out of the cab.
"Hullo, Miss Daisy!" he said. "What stupendous luck! Thought I was going
into the wilderness to-night like the children of Israel--and here you
are! Jove!"
He had taken off his hat, and stood bare-headed as he handed her out
of the cab, exposing that fascinating greyness above the temples
which Daisy had spoken of. A face clean-shaven and so bubblingly
good-humoured that all criticism of his features was futile
appeared below, but a reader of character might easily guess that if
once that bubbling good-humour were expunged, something rather
serious and awkward might be left. But the good-humour seemed
ineradicable; no one could picture his face without it. In other
respects, he was very broad, but of sufficient height to carry off
the breadth without giving the appearance of being short. A broken
front tooth, often exposed by laughter, completed the general
irregularity of his face. The fascinating greyness was accompanied
by a tendency to high forehead, due probably to incipient baldness
rather than to abnormal intellectual development.
"I don't know what Jove has got to do with it," said Daisy; "but if he
is responsible, I think it is delightful of him. I am glad you are here.
I thought I was going into the wilderness too. Oh, I think you have met
my cousin."
He had met Gladys about a hundred times, so Daisy was quite right, and
they shook hands gravely. That ceremony over, he turned to Daisy again
without pause.
"Dance, too, isn't there?" he said. "I shan't know a soul. I never do.
Do dance with me sometimes, out of pity's sake, Miss Daisy--just now and
then, you know."
Daisy gave an altogether excessive florin to the cabman, who held it in
the palm of his hand, and looked at it as if it were some curious
botanical specimen hitherto unknown to him.
"And one usually says 'Thank you!'" she observed.--"Yes, Lord Lindfield,
let's dance now and then."