said she thought he must have been well paid for undertaking to
"guardian" her, as his hard, selfish type does nothing for nothing; and
she has always seemed so very rich (quite _the_ heiress of the school,
envied for her dresses and privileges) that there might be temptations
for an unscrupulous man to pick up a few plums here and there.
But--well, of course Ellaline ought to know, after being his ward ever
since she was four, and hearing things on the best authority about the
horrid way he treated her mother, as well as suffering from his cruel
heartlessness all these years. Never a letter written to herself; never
the least little present; never a wish to hear from her, or see her
photograph; all business carried on between himself and Madame de
Maluet, who is too discreet to prejudice a ward against a guardian. And
I--I saw him only day before yesterday for the first time. What _can_ I
know about him? I've no experience in reading characters of men. The
dear old Abbé and a few masters in the school are the only ones I have a
bowing acquaintance with--except "Sissy" Williams, who doesn't count.
It's dangerous to trust to one's instincts, no doubt, for it's so
difficult to be sure a wish isn't disguising itself as instinct, in
rouge and a golden wig.
But then, there's the man's profile, which is of the knight-of-old,
Crusader pattern, a regular hook to hang respect upon, though I'd be
doing it injustice if I let you imagine it's _shaped_ like a hook. It
isn't; it's quite beautiful; and you find yourself furtively,
semi-consciously sketching it in air with your forefinger as you look at
it. It suggests race, and _noblesse oblige_, and a long line of soldier
ancestors, and that sort of thing, such as you used to say survived
visibly among the English aristocracy and English peasantry (not in the
mixed-up middle classes) more markedly than anywhere else. That must
mean some correspondence in character, mustn't it? Or can it be a mask,
handed down by noble ancestry to cover up moral defects in a degenerate
descendant?
Am I gabbling school-girl gush, or am I groping toward light? You know
what I want to say, anyhow. The impression Sir Lionel Pendragon makes on
me would be different if he hadn't been described by Ellaline. I should
have supposed him quite easy to read, if he'd happened upon me,
unheralded--as a big ship looms over a little bark, on the high sea. I'd
have thought him a simple enough, straightforward character in that
case. I should have put him in the class with his own Tudor castle--not
that I've ever yet seen a Tudor castle, except in photographs or on
postcards. But I'd have said to myself: If he'd been born a house
instead of a man, he'd have been built centuries and centuries ago, by
strong barons who knew exactly what they wanted, and grabbed it. He'd
have been a castle, an _early_ Tudor castle, battlemented and surrounded
by a moat, fortified, of course, and impregnable to the enemy, unless
they treacherously blew him up. He would have had several secret rooms,
but they would contain chests of treasure, not nasty skeletons.
Now you understand exactly what I'd be thinking of the alleged Dragon,
if it weren't for Ellaline. But as it is, I don't know what to think of
him. That's why I describe him as elaborate and complicated, because, I
suppose, he must be totally different inside from what he seems outside.
Anyhow, I don't care--it's lovely being at the Ritz. And we're in the
newspapers this morning, Emily and I shining by reflected light; mine
doubly reflected, like the earth's light shining on to the moon, and
from that being passed on to something else--some poor little chipped
meteorite strayed out of the Milky Way.
It was Mrs. Norton who discovered the article about Sir Lionel--half a
column--in the _Morning Post_ and she sent out for lots of other papers
without saying anything to her brother, for--according to her--he "hates
that sort of thing."
I didn't have time to tell you in my last that she was sick crossing the
Channel (though it was as smooth as if it had been ironed, and only a
few wrinkles left in), but apparently she considers it good form for a
female to be slightly ill in a ladylike way on boats; so, of course, she
is. And as I was decent to her, she decided to like me better than she
thought she would at first. For some reason they _both_ seemed
prejudiced against me (I mean against Ellaline) to begin with. I can't
think why; and slowly, with unconcealable surprise, they are changing
their minds. Changing one's mind keeps one's soul nice and clean and
fresh; so theirs will be well aired, owing to me.
Emily has become quite resigned to my existence, and doles me out small
confidences. She has not a rich nature, to begin with, and it has never
been fertilized much, so it's rather sterile; but no noxious weeds,
anyhow, as there _may_ be in Sir Lionel's more generous and cultivated
soil. I think I shall get on with her pretty well after all, especially
motoring, when I can take her with plenty of ozone. She is a little
afraid of her brother, though he's five years younger than she (I've now
learned), but extremely proud of him; and it was quite pathetic, her
cutting out the stuff about him in the papers, this morning, and showing
every bit to me, before pasting all in a book she has been keeping for
years, entirely concerned with Sir Lionel. She says she will show that
to me, too, some day, but I mustn't tell him. As if I would!
But about the newspapers. She didn't order any Radical ones, because she
said they were always down on the aristocracy, and unjust as well as
stupid; but she got one by mistake, and you've no idea how delighted the
poor little woman was when it praised her brother up to the skies. Then
she said there were _some_ decent Radicals, after all.
Of course, one knows the difference between "Mirabeau judged by his
friends and Mirabeau judged by the people," and can make allowances (if
one's digestion's good) for points of view. But there's one thing
certain, whether he's angel or devil, or something hybrid between the
two, Sir Lionel Pendragon is a man of importance in the Public Eye. I
wonder if Ellaline realizes his importance in that way? I can't think
she does, or she would have mentioned it, as it needn't have interfered
with her opinion of his private character.
It's a little through Emily, but mostly from the newspaper cuttings,
that I've got my knowledge of what he's done, and been, and is expected
to be.
He's forty. I know that, because the _Morning Post_ gave the date of his
birth, and he's rather a swell, although only a baronet, and not even
that till a short time ago. It appears that the family on both sides
goes back into the mists of antiquity, in the days when legend, handed
down by word of mouth (_can_ you hand things out of your mouth? Sounds
rude), was the forerunner of history. His father's ancestors are
supposed to be descended from King Arthur; hence the "Pendragon";
though, I suppose, if it's true, King Arthur must really have been
married several times, as say the vulgar records of which Tennyson very
properly takes no notice. There have been dukes and earls in the family,
but they have somehow disappeared, perhaps because in those benighted
days there were no American heiresses to keep them up.
It seems that Sir Lionel was a soldier to begin with, and was dreadfully
wounded in some frontier fight in India when he was very young. He
nearly lost the use of his left arm, and gave up the army; but he got
the Victoria Cross. Ellaline didn't say a word about that. Maybe she
doesn't know. After I'd read his "dossier" in the paper, I couldn't
resist asking him at lunch what he had done to deserve the V. C.
"Nothing to deserve it," he answered, looking surprised.
"To get it, then?" I twisted my question round.
"Oh, I don't know--almost forget. Pulled some silly ass out of a hole, I
believe," said he.
That's what you get for asking this sort of Englishman questions about
his past. I thought it was only widows with auburn hair you mustn't talk
to about their pasts.
"A grateful Government" (according to the _Morning Post_) "sent young
Pendragon, at the age of twenty-five, to East Bengal, as private
secretary to Sir John Hurley, who was lieutenant-governor at that time";
and it's an ill Governor, so to speak, who blows no one any good. Sir
John's liver was so tired of Bengal, that he had to take it away, and
Lieutenant Pendragon (as he was then) looked after things till another
man could arrive. He looked after them so brilliantly, that when the
next lieutenant-governor did something silly, and was asked to resign,
our incipient Sir Lionel was invited to take on the job. He was only
thirty, and so he has been lieutenant-governor for ten years. Now he's
going to see whether he likes being a baronet better, and having castles
and motor-cars. All the papers I saw praised him tremendously, and said
that in a crisis which might have been disastrous he had averted a
catastrophe by his remarkable strength of character and presence of
mind. I suppose that was the time when the other papers accused him of
abominable cruelties. I wonder which was right? Perhaps I shall be able
to judge, sooner or later, if I watch at the loopholes of his character
like a cat watching for a mouse to come out for a walk.
As for money, if one can believe newspapers, he has plenty without
shaking pennies from the slot of Ellaline Lethbridge's bank, and was
fairly well off even before he came in for his title or his castle.
However, as a very young man, he may have been poor--about the time he
went into guardianship.
By the way, the left arm seems all right now. Anyhow, he uses it as arms
are meant to be used, so far as I can see, so evidently it improved with
time.
The papers tell about his coming back to England, and his Warwickshire
castle, and the fire, and Mrs. Norton giving up her house in--some
county or other; I've already forgotten which--to live with her
"distinguished brother." Also, they say that he has a ward, whose mother
was a relative of the family, and whose father was the Honourable
Frederic Lethbridge, so well known and popular in society during the
"late eighties." Ellaline was born in 1891. What had become of him, I'd
like to know? Perhaps he died before she was born. She has told me that
she can't remember him, but that's about all she has ever said of her
father.
We are to stay at the Ritz until we start off on the motor trip, which
is actually going to happen, though I was afraid it was too good to be
true. The new car won't be ready for a week, though. I am sorry, but
Mrs. Norton isn't. She is afraid she will be killed, and thinks it will
be a messy sort of death to die. Besides, she likes London. She says her
brother will be "overwhelmed with invitations"; but he hates society,
and loathes being lionized. Imagine the man smothered under stacks of
perfumed notes, as Tarpeia was under the shields and bracelets! Emily
has not lived in London, because she wanted to be in a place where she
particularly valued the vicar and the doctor; but she has given them up
for her brother now, and is only going to write her symptoms, spiritual
and physical. She enjoys church more than anything else, but thinks it
will be her duty to take me about a little while we're in town, as her
brother is sure not to, because he spurns women, and is not interested
in anything they do.
I suppose she must know; and yet, at lunch yesterday, he asked if we
were too tired, or if we should like to "do a few theatres." I
said--because I simply _had_ to spare them a shock later--that I was
afraid I hadn't anything nice to wear. I felt myself go red--for it was
a sort of disgrace to Ellaline--but he didn't seem as much surprised as
Mrs. Norton did. Her eyebrows went up; but he only said of course school
girls never had smart frocks, and I must buy a few dresses at once.
One evening gown would be enough for a young girl, Mrs. Norton said, but
he didn't agree with her. He said he hadn't thought about it, but now
that it occurred to him, he was of opinion that women should have plenty
of nice things. Then, when she told him, rather hurriedly, that she
would choose me something ready made at a good shop in Oxford Street, he
remarked that he'd always understood Bond Street was the place.
"Not for school girls," explained dear Emily, who is a canny person.
"She isn't a school girl now. That's finished," said Sir Lionel. And as
she thinks him a tin god on wheels, she ceased to argue.
By the by, he has the air of hating to call me by name. He says "Miss
Lethbridge," in a curious, stiff kind of way, when he's absolutely
obliged to give me a label; otherwise he compromises with "you," to
which he confines himself when possible. It's rather odd, and can't be
an accident. The only reason I can think of is that he may feel it is
really his duty to call me "Ellaline."
I promised to write to Ellaline, as soon as I'd anything to tell worth
telling; and I suppose I must do it to-day; yet I dread to, and can't
make up my mind to begin. I don't like to praise a person whom she
regards as a monster; still, I've nothing to say against him; and I'm
sure she'll be cross if I don't run him down. I think I shall state
facts baldly. When I get instalments of allowance--intended for
Ellaline, of course--I am to send the money to her, except just enough
not to be noticeably penniless. I'm to address her as Mademoiselle
Leonie de Nesville, and send letters to Poste Restante, because, while
I'm known as Miss Lethbridge, it might seem queer if I posted envelopes
directed to a person of my own name. It was Ellaline who suggested that,
not I. She thought of everything. Though she's such a child in some
ways, she's marvellous at scheming.
I really can't think yet what I _shall_ say to her. It's worrying me. I
feel guilty, somehow, I don't know why.
Mrs. Norton suggested taking me out shopping and sight-seeing this
afternoon. Sir Lionel proposed going with us. His sister was astonished,
and so was I, especially after what she had said about his not being
interested in women's affairs. "Just to make sure that you take my tip
about Bond Street," he remarked. "And Bond Street used to amuse me--when
I was twenty. I think it will amuse me now--to see how it and I have
changed."
So we are going, all three. Rather awful about the gray serge and sailor
hat, isn't it? I felt self-respecting in them at Versailles, and even in
Paris, because there I was a singing teacher; in other words, nobody.
But in London I'm supposed to be an heiress. And here, at the Ritz, such
beautiful beings come to lunch, in dresses which they have evidently
been poured into with consummate skill and incredible expense.
I tasted _Pêche Melba_ to-day, for the first time. It made me wish for
you. But it didn't seem to go at all with gray serge and a cotton
blouse. I ought to have been a Gorgeous Being, with silk linings.
How am I to support the shopping ordeal? Supposing Mrs. Norton chooses
me things (oh horror!). They're sure to be hideous, but they may be
costly. As it says in an English society paper which Madame de Maluet
takes: "What should A. do?"
If only Telepathy were a going concern, you would answer that Hard Case
for
Your poor, puzzled
"A.," alias "E."
P. S. Nothing more heard or seen of the White Girl's Burden, Richard of
that ilk. I was afraid of his turning up at the Grand Hotel in Paris, or
even at the station to "see us off," but he didn't. He has disappeared
into space, and is welcome to the whole of it. I should nearly have
forgotten him, if I didn't wonder sometimes what his mysterious
profession is.
VI
SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL P. R. O'HAGAN, AT DROITA, EAST BENGAL
_Ritz Hotel, London_,
_July 8th_
My Dear Pat: You were right, I was wrong. It _is_ good to be in
England again. Your prophecy has come true. The dead past has pretty
well buried its dead. A few dry bones show under the surface here and
there. I let them lie. Is thy servant a dog, that he should dig up
buried bones!
As you know, I was ass enough to dread arriving in Paris. I dreaded it
throughout the whole voyage. When I got to Marseilles, I found a wire
from Emily, saying she would meet me in Paris. Ass again! I had an idea
she was putting herself to that trouble with the kindly wish to "stand
by," and take my thoughts off old days. But I might have known better,
knowing that good, practical little soul. She had quite another object.
Came to break the news of a fire at Graylees; but it seems not to have
done any serious damage, except to have wiped out a few modern frills.
They can easily be tacked on again. I'm glad it was no worse, for I love
Graylees. I might have turned out a less decent sort of chap than I am
if it hadn't been for the prospect of inheriting it sooner or later. One
has to live up to certain things, and Graylees was an incentive.
You asked me to tell you if Emily had changed. Well, she has. It's
eighteen years since you saw her; fifteen since I did. I must tell you
honestly, you'd have no sentimental regrets if you could see her now.
You will remember, if you're not too gallant, that she was three years
older than you; the three seem to have stretched to a dozen. Luckily,
you didn't let Norton's snatching Emily from under your nose prey upon
cheek or heart. Nothing is damaged. You are sound and whole, and that is
why your friendship has been such a boon to me. You have saved me from
tilting against many windmills.
I suppose you'll think I'm "preambling" now, to put off the evil moment
of telling you about Ellaline de Nesville's girl. But no. For once
you're mistaken in me. After all, it isn't an evil moment. I'm surprised
at myself, doubly surprised at the girl; and both surprises are
agreeable ones.
I don't ask you if you remember Ellaline; for nobody who ever saw her
could forget her; at least, so it seems to me, after all these years,
and all the changes in myself. As I am now, hers is the last type with
which I should fall in love, provided I were fool enough to lose my head
for anyone. Yet I can't wonder at the adoration I gave her. She was
exactly the sort of girl to call out a boy's love, and she had all mine,
poor foolish wretch that I was. There's nothing more pathetic, I think,
at this distance, than a boy's passionate purity in his first
love--unless it's his disillusionment; for disillusion does no nature
good. It would have done mine great harm if I hadn't had a friend like
you to groan and grumble to.
You understand how I've always felt about this child she wished me to
care for. I was certain that Ellaline Number 2 would grow up as like
Ellaline Number 1 as this summer's rose is like last summer's, which
bloomed on the same bush.
At four years old the little thing undoubtedly had a dollish resemblance
to her mother. I thought I remembered that she had the first Ellaline's
great dark eyes, full of incipient coquetry, and curly black lashes,
which the little flirt already knew how to use, by instinct. The same
sort of mouth, too, which to look at makes a boy believe in a personal
Cupid, and a man in a personal devil. I had a dim recollection of
chestnut-brown hair, falling around a tiny face shaped like Ellaline's;
"heart-shape" we used to call it, Emily and I, when we were both under
our little French cousin's thumb, in the oldest days of all, before even
Emily began to find her out.
I wonder if a child sheds its first hair, like its first teeth? I've
never given much thought to infantine phenomena of any kind; still, I'm
inclined to believe now that there must be such cases. Of course, we
know a type of blond, née brunette; for instance, Mrs. Senter, young
Burden's fascinating aunt, whom we suspected of having turned blond in a
single night (by the way, whom should I run across in Paris but Dicky,
grown up more or less since he chaperoned his female belongings in the
Far East). But I'm not talking of the Mrs. Senters of the world; I'm
talking of Ellaline's unexpected daughter. She has changed almost
incredibly between the ages of four and nineteen.
Before I knew Emily intended meeting me in Paris, I wrote the
school-ma'am asking that my ward might be sent, well chaperoned, to the
Gare de Lyon. It was bad enough to have to face a modern young female,
adorned with all the latest improvements and parlour tricks. It would
have been worse to face several dozens of these creatures in their lair;
therefore, I funked collecting my ward at Versailles. I was to know her
by a rose pinned on her frock in case she'd altered past recognition. It
was well, as things turned out, that I'd made the suggestion, otherwise
the girl would have had to go back to Versailles, like an unclaimed
parcel; and that would have been bad, as she had no chaperon. Something
had happened to the lady, or to the lady's relatives. I almost forget
what, now.
Instead of the dainty little Tanagra figure in smart French frills,
which I expected, there was a tall, beautiful young person, with the
bearing of an Atalanta, and the clothes of a Quakeress. She tacked my
name on to the wrong man, or I should have let her go, in spite of the
rose, so different was she from what I expected. And you'll be amused to
hear that her idea of Lionel Pendragon was embodied by old "Hannibal"
Jones, who got into my train at Marseilles. He's taken to parting his
name in the middle now, and is General Wellington-Jones. She ought to
have known my age approximately, or could have learned it if she cared
to bother; but I suppose to nineteen, forty might as well be sixty.
That's a thing to remember, if one feels the sap pulsing in one's
branches, just to remind one that after all it's not spring, but autumn.
And at the present moment, by the way, I'm not sure that I shan't need
this kind of taking down a peg, for I am feeling so young that I think I
must be growing old. I have begun to value what's left me of youth; to
take it out and look at it in all lights, like a fruit which must be
gloated over before it decays--and that's a fatal sign, eh? I have the
most extraordinary interest in life, which I attribute to the new
motor-car which will be finished and ready to use in a few days; also to
the thought that Graylees is my own.
But I'm wandering away from the girl.
She is as unlike Ellaline de Nesville as one beautifully bound first
volume of a human document can be from another equally attractive.
"First volume of a human document" isn't inexpressive of a young girl,
is it? Heaven knows what this one may be by the time the second and
third volumes are ready for publication; but at present one turns over
the leaves with pleased surprise. There's something original and
charming in each new page.
Her first hair must have been shed, for the present lot--and there is a
lot!--is of a bright, yellowy brown; looks like a child's hair, somehow.
There are little rings and kinks about it which I take to have been put
there by the curling-tongs of nature, though I may be mistaken. And I
suppose I must have deceived myself about the child's eyes, for they are
not black, but of a grayish hazel, which can look brown or violet at
night. She is a tall young thing, slim and straight as a sapling, with
frank, honest manners, which are singularly engaging. I look at her in
amazement and interest, and find her looking at me with an expression
which I am not able to make out. I hardly dare let myself go in liking
her, for fear of disappointment. She seems too good to be true, too good
to last. I keep wondering what ancestress of Ellaline de Nesville's, or
Fred Lethbridge's, is gazing out of those azure windows which are this
girl's eyes. If Fred's soul, or Ellaline's, peeps from behind the clear,
bright panes, it contrives to keep itself well hidden--so far. But I
expect anything.
I had no notion until now that a young woman could be a delightful "pal"
for a man, especially a man of my age. Perhaps this is my ignorance of
the sex (for I admit I locked up the book of Woman, and never opened it
again, since the chapter of Ellaline), or it may be that girls have
changed since the "brave days when we were twenty-one." At that remote
epoch, as far as I can discover by blowing off the dust from faded
souvenirs, one either made love to girls, or one didn't. They were there
to dance with and flirt with, and go on the river with, not to talk
politics to, or exchange opinions of the universe. They--the prettiest
ones--would have thought that valuable time was being wasted in such
discussions. Yet here is this girl, not twenty, a child fresh from
school--a French school, at that--radiant with the power of her youth,
her beauty, her femininity; yet she seems actually interested in
problems of life unconnected with love affairs. She appears to like
talking sense, and she has humour, far more subtle than the mere,
kittenish sense of fun which belongs to her years--or lack of them. I
dreaded the responsibility of her, but I dreaded much more being bored
by her, flirted with by her. I'm hanged if I could have stood that from
the kind of girl I was prepared to see; but as I said, I've found a
"pal"--if I dared believe in her. Instead of avoiding my ward's society,
and shoving it on to Emily, as I intended, I excuse myself to myself for
contriving pretexts to bask in it.