Second String Part 36

"Yes, but I think--oh, it's only my view--that you're more interesting, Harry. Only, when you are bored, I want you--"

"Now don't say you want me to tell you so! Do let us be decently polite, even if I am your husband."

She laughed. "I won't strain your manners so far as that; I'm proud of their being so good myself. No, I want you just to go away and amuse yourself somewhere else till the fit's over. You may even flirt just a little, if you feel it really necessary, Harry! You needn't be quite so religiously strict all your life as you've been lately."

"Religiously strict? How do you mean?"

"Well, all this time I don't believe you've allowed yourself one good look at Isobel, though she's very good-looking; and I know you haven't called at the Lion yet, though Miss Flower has been there two days, and she such an old friend of yours in London."

"Have you called there?"

"Yes, I went yesterday. I like her so much, and I like that odd friend of hers too."

"Oh, Sally Dutton! I suppose she got her knife into me, didn't she?"

"She got her knife, as you call it, into everybody who was mentioned. Oh yes, including you!" Vivien laughed merrily.

"It's rather a bore--those girls coming down here. I hope we shan't see too much of them." He rose. "I'm afraid I must go, Vivien. We're due at Medfold Crossways to-night, and it's a good long drive, even with the motor. I've got to have some abominable hybrid of a meal at five."

She too rose and came to him, putting her hands in his. Her laughing face grew grave and tender.

"Dear, you really are happy?" she asked softly, yet rather insistently.

He looked into her eyes; they were not veiled or remote for him.

"Honestly I believe you're the only chance of happiness I've got in the world, Vivien. Is that enough?"

"I think it's really more than being happy, or than being sure you will be happy." She smiled. "It gives me more to do, at all events."

"And if I made you unhappy?"

"Don't be hurt, please don't be hurt, but just a little of that wouldn't surprise me. Oh, my dear, you don't think I should change to you just because of a little unhappiness? When you've given me all the happiness I've ever had!"

"All you've ever had? Poor child!"

"It wasn't quite loyal to let that slip out. And it was my own fault, of course, mostly. But they--they were sometimes rather hard on me." She smiled piteously. "For my good? Perhaps it was. Without it, you mightn't have cared for me."

"Is it as much to you as that?" he asked, a note of fear, almost of distress, in his voice.

She marked it, and answered gaily, "It wouldn't be worth having if it wasn't, Harry!"

He kissed her fondly and tenderly, praying in his heart that he might not turn all her happiness to grief.

Her presence had wrought on him at last in its old way; if it had not given him peace, yet it had shown him where the chance of peace lay, if he would take it. It had again made him hate the thing he had been doing, and himself for doing it; again it had made him almost hate the woman whom and whom only he had, in truth, that day come to see. It had made the right thing seem again within his reach, made the idea of giving up Vivien look both impossibly cruel to her and impossibly foolish for himself. Yet he was, like Isobel, in great fear--in almost hopeless fear. These two, with their imperious desire for one another, became, each to the other, a terror--in themselves terrors, and the source of every danger threatening from outside.

"She gave me the chance of ending it last night. If only I could take her at her word!"

"Not after to-night!" she had said. He remembered the words in a flash of hope. But he remembered also that his answer had been, "Ah, you do!"

and a kiss. If she said again, "Not after to-night!"--aye, said it again and again--would not the answer always be, "Ah, but to-night at least!"

Such words ever promised salvation, but brought none; they were worse than useless. Under a specious pledge of the future, they abandoned the present hour.

Chapter XVI.

A CHOICE OF EVILS.

The best parlour--the private sitting-room--at the Lion was on the ground floor, just opposite the private bar, and boasted a large bay window, commanding a full view of High Street. A low broad bench, comfortably cus.h.i.+oned, ran round the window, and afforded to Miss Flower a favourable station from which to observe what was doing in the town.

On fine days, such as ruled just now, when the window was thrown up, the position also served as a rendezvous to which her growing band of friends and admirers could resort to exchange compliments, to post her in the latest news, or just to get a sight of her. Jack Rock would stroll across from his shop three or four times a day; Andy would stop a few minutes on his way to or from his lodgings; Billy would stretch his long legs over the sill and effect an entry; Vivien ask if she might come in for a few minutes; c.h.i.n.ks cast an eye as he hurried to his office; the Bird find an incredible number of occasions for pa.s.sing on his daily duties. There the Nun sat, surveying the traffic of Meriton, and fully aware that Meriton, in its turn, honoured her with a flattering attention. Within the Lion itself she already reigned supreme; old Mr. Dove was at her feet, so was old c.o.x and the other _habitues_ of the private bar; the Bird, as already hinted, was "knocked silly"--this contemptuous phrase for a sudden pa.s.sion was Miss Miles'.

Yet even Miss Miles was affable, and quite content to avenge herself for the Bird's desertion (which she justly conceived to be temporary) by a marked increase in those across-the-counter pleasantries which she had once a.s.sured her employer were carried on wholly and solely for the benefit of his business. The fact was that Miss Miles had once officiated at the bar of a "theatre of varieties," and this const.i.tuted a professional tie between the Nun and herself, strong enough to defy any trifling awkwardness caused by a wavering in the Bird's affections.

But the Nun's most notable and complete conquest was over Mr. Belfield.

Billy Foot had brought him--not his son Harry--and speedily thereafter he called on his own account, full of courtly excuses because his wife, owing to a touch of cold, was not with him; he hoped that she would be able to come very soon. (Mr. Belfield was engaged on another small domestic struggle, such as had preceded Andy Hayes' first dinner at Halton.) Serenely indifferent to the minutiae of etiquette, Miss Flower allowed it to appear that she would just as soon receive Mr. Belfield by himself.

He interpreted her permission as applying to more than one visit; somehow or other, most days found him by the bay window, and generally, on being pressed, at leisure to come in and rest. They would chat over all manner of things together, each imparting to the other from a store of experiences strange to the listener; or together they would discuss their common friends in Meriton. She liked his shrewd and humorous wisdom; her directness and simplicity charmed him no less than the extreme prettiness of her face.

"Well, Miss Flower," he said one morning, "the boys finish their speechifying to-morrow, and then they'll be more at liberty to amuse you, instead of leaving it so much to the old stagers."

"And then you'll all be getting busy about the wedding. In three weeks now, isn't it?"

"Just a few days over three weeks. Individually I shall be glad when it's over."

"Have they done well with their speeches?" she asked. "After all my good intentions, I only went once."

"They think they've made the seat absolutely safe for Harry. Parliament and marriage--the boy's taking on responsibilities!"

"It seems funny, when one's just played about with them! It's a funny thing to be just one of people's amus.e.m.e.nts--off the stage as well as on it."

"Oh, come!" He smiled. "Is that all you claim to be--to any of those boys?"

"That's the way they look at me--in their sober moments. Except Andy; he's quite different. He's never been about town, you see. For him girls and women are all in the same cla.s.s."

"I was once about town myself," Belfield remarked thoughtfully.

"Yes, and you take your son's view--and Billy Foot's." He smiled again, and she smiled too, meeting his glance directly. "Oh yes, Billy too--though he may have his temptations! Squarely now, Mr. Belfield, if--for the sake of argument--your son treated Miss Wellgood badly, or even Miss Vintry, it would seem a different thing from treating Sally or me badly, wouldn't it?"

"You do put it pretty squarely," said Belfield, twisting his lips.

"A gla.s.s of beer gives you the right to flirt with poor Miss Miles. It's supposed to be champagne with us. When you were about town--don't you remember?"

"I suppose it was. It's not a tradition to be proud of."

"There are compensations--which some of us like. If Sally or I behave badly, who cares? But if Miss Wellgood or Miss Vintry--! Oh, dear me, the heavens would fall in Meriton!"

"By the way, I'm afraid I drive your friend away? Miss Dutton always disappears when I call."

"She generally disappears when people come. Sally's shy of strangers.

Well, you know, as I was saying, Andy Hayes hasn't got that tradition. I think if I ever fell in love--I never do, Mr. Belfield--I should fall in love with a man who hadn't that tradition. But they're very hard to find."