But she liked Lindfield; that made her task so much harder. It was
shameful to treat a man like this, and yet--and yet there was still the
memory of that dreadful gilded house in Paris and the dying voice of
Diana.
So once more, and not for the last time, she settled down to the task
that was so odious--odious because she liked him.
"We shall quarrel, then, I am afraid," she said, "because I want to talk
too. We both want to talk--I to you, you to me."
He leant over her a moment, since the punt-pole had to be grounded at
the stern of the boat, for he had tied the chain in the bow to an
unearthed root of the tree. She leant a little sideways away from him,
and this was done. It was then she gave him the few cushions out of the
two thousand.
"Have you got anything very special to say?" she asked. "Because I have,
and so I shall begin. Yet I don't know if it is special, except that
between friends everything seems to be special."
Again Jeannie could not get on for a moment, but she proceeded without
notable pause.
"The difference between friends and acquaintances is so enormous," she
said, "and yet so many people confuse the two. One may meet another
person a hundred times and be only an acquaintance; one may meet a
person once and be a friend in a minute. Perhaps it is not the same with
men. I don't think a man recognizes those who are going to be or are
capable of being his friends at the first glance, whereas a woman does.
She feels it to the end of her finger-tips."
Jeannie gave a quick glance at him, and saw that he was listening with
considerable attention. She gave a little sigh, and clasped her hands
behind her head.
"What an uneconomical world it is," she said, "and what a lot of
affection and emotion Nature allows to run to waste. A man sees in some
woman the one quality, the one character that he is for ever seeking; he
sees that she is in some way the complement of himself, and perhaps the
woman merely dislikes him. Or it may happen the other way round. What a
waste of noble stuff that means. All his affection is poured away like a
stream losing itself in the desert. It does seem a pity."
"Jove! yes, and I never thought of that," he said. "There must be a lot
of that going on. So much, perhaps, that some day the desert will get
quite damp, and then won't it cease to be a desert?"
She looked at him rather longer, letting her eyes rest on his.
"That is a much more hopeful solution," she said. "Perhaps it doesn't
all go to waste. Or shall we say that Nature never throws things away,
but puts all these odds and ends of affection in the stock-pot to make
soup. But they will make soup for other people. Ah! there was lightning
far off. The storm is beginning."
They waited in silence, till a long, drowsy peal of thunder answered.
"Oh, it is miles away yet," he said.
Jeannie arranged her cushions more comfortably. "And yet I rather like
Nature's uneconomical habits," she said, "if we settle she is a
spendthrift. There is something rather royal and large-handed about it.
She is just the same in physical affairs. I saw in some snippety paper
the other day that the amount of electricity discharged in a good
thunderstorm would be sufficient to light every house in London for five
hours, or run all the trains on all the tubes for about the same time. I
should think you are rather spendthrift, too, Lord Lindfield."
He laughed.
"I? Oh, yes. I pour out gallons of affection in all directions.
Always have."
Again Jeannie smiled at him.
"Ah, I like that," she said, softly. "And we won't think it goes to
waste. It would be too sad. Go on, tell me about your pouring it out in
all directions. I should like to hear about it."
Jeannie hated herself as she spoke; she was using all her woman's charm
to draw him on, and--a thing which he could not follow, though she knew
it well--she was using lightness of touch so that he should not see how
much she was in earnest. She had used, too, that sacred name of
friendship to encourage him to draw nearer her, for no man could listen
to what she had been saying without reading into it some directly
personal meaning; clearly the friendship she spoke of concerned him and
her, for no woman talks to a man about friendship purely in the
abstract unless she is his grandmother. And she was not; nobody could be
less like a grandmother, as she sat there, in the full beauty of her
thirty years and her ripened womanhood.
She was beautiful, and she knew it; she had charm, she was alone on this
hot thundery day with him in the punt. Also she meant to use all power
that was hers. The plan was to detach him from the girl, and the manner
of his detachment was the attachment to her. Daisy must be shown how
light were his attachments.
Indeed, the handicap of years did not seem so heavy now. She was
perfectly well aware that men looked at her as she went by, and turned
their heads after she had passed. And this hot, sweltering day, she
knew, suited her and the ripe rather Southern beauty of her face, though
in others it might only be productive of headache or fatigue. Indeed, it
was little wonder that her plan had made so promising a beginning.
He moved again a little nearer her, clasping his knees in his hands.
"You've talked about friends," he said, "and you are encouraging me to
talk about them. It's a jolly word; it means such a jolly thing. And I'm
beginning to hope I have found one in this last day or two."
There was no mistaking this, nor was there any use in her pretending not
to know what he meant; indeed, it was worse than useless, for it was for
this she had been working. There was no touch or hint of passion in his
voice; he was speaking of friends as a boy might speak. And she liked
him.
She held out her hand with a charming frankness of gesture.
"That is a very good hearing," she said. "I congratulate you. And,
Lord Lindfield, it isn't only you I congratulate; I congratulate
myself most heartily."
He unclasped his knees and took her hand in both his.
"Thanks, most awfully," he said.
"Friends don't thank each other," she said. "One only thanks people who
don't matter. Now go on. I have been doing all the talking these last
two days. It is your turn; I want to know much more about you."
"I expect you won't like it."
"I must be the judge of that. I am willing to risk it."
"Well, I told you I wanted to talk most awfully," he said, "and now
you've made it so much easier. I expect you know a certain amount about
me, as it is. I've had a tremendously good time all my life. People have
been very kind to me always. I expect they've been too kind. It's all
been so confoundedly pleasant, I have let the years go by without ever
thinking of settling down. But there's an awful lot to be said for it.
And all my life--I'm thirty-eight already--I've shirked every
responsibility under the sun."
Jeannie had a sudden sense that in spite of the promising beginning
which she had half prided herself on and half loathed herself for,
things were going quite completely wrong, and that she had as yet
accomplished nothing whatever. It was but a momentary impression, and
she had no time to reflect on or examine it, since she had to do her
part in this sealed compact of friendship. But she did it with an
uncourageous heart.
She laughed.
"I can't console you over that," she said, "or tell you that you do
yourself an injustice, because I have always regarded you as the very
type of the delectable and untrammelled life. You don't conform to the
English standard, you know, and I expect you have no more acquaintance
with your Wiltshire estates and all your people there than you have with
the House of Lords. Have you ever taken your seat, by the way? No, I
thought not. But, after all, if you don't know the House of Lords, you
know London pretty well, and--and Paris."
He did not smile now, but looked at her gravely.
"Yes, worse luck," he said.
Jeannie nodded at him.
"Well, well," she said, quietly. "Never mind that now. You were speaking
of settling down. Go on about that."
"One doesn't settle down alone," he said.
And then she knew that, so far, her plan had been a dead failure. His
attitude towards her was perfectly clear; they were friends, and as
friends should do, he was confiding in her, seeking from her the
sympathy and counsel of a friend.
"You mean to marry, then?" she asked.
"I hope to marry."
Once again the lightning flickered in the sky, and the thunder gave a
far more immediate response. That big coppery cloud which had been low
on the horizon had spread upwards over the heavens with astonishing
speed, and even as the thunder crackled a few big drops of rain splashed
on the river outside their shelter under the chestnuts. The storm was
quickly coming closer, and a big tree, as Jeannie remembered, is not a
very desirable neighbourhood under the circumstances.
"We had better get home," she said. "There is going to be a storm."
He jumped up at once, loosed the chain, and with a few swift strokes
took them back into the boathouse. There was no time just then for
further conversation, and Jeannie, at any rate, did not wish for it. But
it was as she had feared. All that she had done hitherto was nothing;
the calamity she wished to avert had not yet been averted.
One thing only she had gained at present, the footing of a friend.
Already, she was sure, he valued that, and on that she would have to
build. But it was a precarious task; she could not see her way yet. Only
she knew that such friendship as she had already formed with him was
not enough. He was not detached from Daisy yet. For the last forty-eight
hours, it is true, he had almost completely left her alone, but that was
not enough. He still intended to marry her.
Jeannie went straight to her room on gaining the house, under pretence
of changing her dress, which even in those few yards across from the
boathouse had got wet with the first rain of the storm. But she wanted
not that so much as to sit by herself and think. Matters were not so
easy as she had hoped, for she knew now that she had let herself believe
that by the mere formation of a friendship with her, she could lead him
away from Daisy. And now, for the first time, she saw how futile such a
hope had been. He could, in the pleasure of this new friendship, be
somewhat markedly inattentive to Daisy for a day or two, but it could
not permanently detach him. She must seem to offer something more than
mere friendship.
That he was seriously in love with Daisy she did not wholly believe,
but he meant to marry her; he meant, anyhow, to ask her to marry him,
and Alice, who knew better than she what Daisy felt, was sure that
Daisy would accept him. But something more than a mere flirtation was
required; matters, she saw now, had to go deeper than that. She must
make herself essential to him, and then, when he knew that she was
essential, she would have to turn her back on him. It was not a
pretty role.
There came a gentle tap at the door, and Daisy entered.
"Ah! you have come in, Aunt Jeannie," she said. "Did you get caught
in the storm?"
"Not to speak of. We did not go far. Lord Lindfield offered to take me
up to Maidenhead, but, as a matter of fact, we went to the corner of the
backwater. Oh, I promised not to laugh at him for the immensity of the
expedition, because it was I who proposed stopping under the chestnuts.
How charming he is, Daisy! And how is the headache?"
"Rather brilliant still, but it will get better. Aunt Jeannie, how
quickly you make friends with people."
There was something tearing to Jeannie's tender heart about this.
Daisy looked so white and tired, and so helpless, she who was usually
a perfect well-spring of high spirits and enjoyment. Jeannie longed
to take that dear head in her hands and kiss its trouble away, but it
was just that which she could not do. This trouble could not be
kissed away; it had to be burnt away--by a hand, too, that seemed
unconscious of its cruel work.
"With him, do you mean?" she asked lightly. "You can scarcely say I have
only now been making friends with him. I saw a good deal of him at one
time; in fact, he was rather devoted to me. But my eagle eye sees no
sign of a return of it. Does yours?"
The room was very dark with the blackness of the sky outside, and
Jeannie could see Daisy but indistinctly. Then with a wicked flare of
lightning it leaped into light, and the thunder rattled round the
eaves. But in that moment's flash Jeannie saw Daisy's face again,
mute, white, and appealing, and it was intolerable to her. Besides,
anything was better and less dangerous than a _tete-a-tete_ with
Daisy. At any moment she might tell her about Lord Lindfield and the
offer she expected. That would make her part infinitely worse to
play; it would make it impossible. At present, anyhow, so far as
Daisy knew, she was ignorant of it all.
She jumped at the appalling racket overhead.
"Oh, I hate thunder--I hate thunder," she said. "Let us come downstairs,
Daisy, where there are people. Besides, it is tea-time, is it not? Let
us go down. I came straight to my room, and Lord Lindfield, I think,
went to his. Alice will be anxious if she thinks we are still out.
Listen to the rain. How it will beat the flowers down! Come, dear."
"I have hardly had a word with you since you came back, Aunt Jeannie,"
said Daisy.
"I know, dear, but in a house full of people what can one expect? We
must have a great talk when we get back to London. Every moment seems
occupied here. Dear child, I hope your headache will be better soon.
Will you not go and lie down? Or shall I tell Alice you are not well,
and won't you have a little dinner quietly in your room by yourself? No?
Let us go down, then."