Second String Part 59

"I'm glad you admit that much! I say--I suppose you--you haven't heard anything of Vivien Wellgood?"

"I hear she's in excellent health and spirits."

"I've never been so cut up about anything. Still, of course, she was a mere girl, and--well, things pa.s.s!"

"Luckily things pa.s.s. I've no doubt she'll soon console herself."

"He'll be a very lucky fellow," said Harry handsomely. After all, he himself had admired Vivien, and his taste was good.

"He will. In fact I think I know only one man good enough for her--and that's Andy Hayes."

Harry's face was suddenly transformed to a peevish amazement.

"My dear girl, are you out of your mind? Don't say such silly things!

Old Andy's a good chap, but the idea that Vivien would look at him! He's not her cla.s.s; and she's the most fastidious little creature alive--as dainty and fastidious as can be!" He smiled again--probably at some reminiscence.

"I don't see why her being fastidious should prevent her liking Andy."

Harry broke into open impatience. "I like old Andy--well, I think I've done something to prove that--but, upon my soul, you all seem to have gone mad about him. You all ram him down a man's throat. It's possible to have too much of him, good fellow as he is. He and Vivien Wellgood!

Well, it's simply d.a.m.ned ridiculous!" He took out his watch and, as he looked at it, exclaimed with great irritation, "Why the devil doesn't this woman come?"

"I thought Mrs. Belfield was always so punctual?"

"It's not Mrs. Belfield," Harry snapped out.

"Well, don't be disagreeable to the poor woman simply because I said something you didn't like."

"Something I didn't like? That's an absurd way of putting it. It's only that to be for ever hearing of n.o.body but--"

"That tall young woman over there seems to be staring rather hard at you and me, Harry."

"By gad, it is her! I must run." His smiles broke out again. "I say, Doris, I shall get into trouble over this! You're looking your best, my dear, and she's as jealous as--I must run! Au revoir!"

"It's not Mrs. Freere--so I suppose it's Lady Lucy," thought the Nun.

She was in high good temper at the result of her casual allusion to Andy Hayes. The shoe pinched there, did it? She was not vicious towards Harry; she wished him no harm--indeed she wished him more good than he would be likely to welcome--but the extreme complacency of his manner in the earlier part of their talk stirred her resentment. Her suggestion about Andy Hayes put a quick end to that.

Lady Lucy had an impudent little face, with an impudent little turned-up nose. She settled herself cosily into her chair on the balcony and peeled off her gloves.

"I'm so glad we're just by ourselves--I mean, since poor Mrs. Belfield wasn't well enough to come. I was afraid of finding Lily Freere!"

"What made you afraid of that?" asked Harry, smiling.

"Well, she is about with you a good deal, isn't she? Does your wife like being managed so much? Or is it your choice?"

"Mrs. Freere's an old friend."

"So I've always understood!"

"You mustn't listen to ill-natured gossip. Just an old friend! But it's not very likely I should have asked her to come to-day."

The Nun and her party entered, and sat down at the other end of the balcony.

"There's that girl you were talking to. Look round; she's sitting facing me."

"Oh yes, Doris Flower!"

"An old friend too? You seemed to be having a very confidential conversation at least."

"On the most strictly unsentimental footing. Really there you may believe me!" Harry's voice fell to an artistic whisper. "Did you come only to tease me?"

"I don't think you care much whether I tease you or not," said Lady Lucy.

He was helping her to wine; he held the bottle, she held the gla.s.s.

Somehow it chanced that their hands touched. Lady Lucy blushed a little and glanced at Harry. "How shall I persuade you that I care?" asked Harry.

The Nun's host--at the other end of the balcony--turned to her. "You're not very talkative to-day, Miss Doris!"

"Oh, I'm sorry: There's always so much to look at at the other tables, isn't there?"

"Pretty much the same old lot!" remarked the host--an experienced youth.

"Pretty much!" agreed the Nun serenely.

Chapter XXV.

THE LAST FIGHT.

On a fine Sunday evening in the following autumn Belfield and Andy Hayes sat over their wine, the ladies having, as usual, adjourned to the garden. Among their number were included the Nun and Sally Dutton; a second stay at Meriton had broken down Sally's shyness. Belfield and his wife were just back from London, whither they had gone to see their grandchild, Harry's first-born son. All had gone well, and Belfield was full of impressions of his visit. His natural pleasure in the birth of the child was damped by Harry's refusal to promise to take up his residence at Halton when his turn came.

"But I did get him to promise not to sell--only to let; so his son may live here, though mine won't." He looked older and more frail; his mind moved in a near future which, near as it was, he would not see.

"I sometimes think," he went on, "that the professional moralists, all or most of our preachers of one sort and another--and who doesn't preach nowadays?--take too narrow a view. Their table of virtues isn't comprehensive enough. Now my boy Harry, with all his faults, is never disagreeable. What an enormous virtue! Negative, if you like, but enormous! What a lot of pain and discomfort he doesn't give! All through this domestic business his behaviour has been admirable--so kind, so attentive, so genuinely concerned, so properly gratified. Upon my word, seeing him in his own home, you'd think he was a model! That's a good deal. His weakness comes in to save him there; he must be popular--even in his own house!"

"Oh, this event'll do them no end of good, sir," said Andy, ever ready to clutch again at the elusive skirts of optimism.

"Some, no doubt," Belfield cautiously agreed. "And she's a brave woman--I'll say that for her. She understands him, and she loves him.

When I saw her, we had a reconciliation on that basis. We let the past alone--I wasn't anxious to meet her on that ground--and made up our minds to the future. Her work is to keep things going, to prevent a smash. She must shut her eyes sometimes--pretty often, I'm afraid. He'll always be very pleasant to her, if she'll do that. In fact, the worse he's behaving the pleasanter the rogue will be. I know him of old in that."

"Has he any plans?" asked Andy.

Belfield smiled. "Oh yes. He's got a plan for wintering in Algeria; they'll go as soon as she's well enough, stopping in Paris _en route_.

Yes, he's really full of plans--for enjoying himself and meeting friends he likes. There's a Lady Lucy Somebody who's got the finest motor-car on earth. She's going to be in Paris. Oh, well, there it is! Plans of any other sort are dropped. He's dropped them; she's had to drop them--after a good deal of fighting, so she told me. He makes no definite refusals; he puts her off, laughs it off, shunts it, you know, and goes on his own way. One didn't understand how strong that had grown in him--the dislike of any responsibilities or limits. Being answerable to anybody seems to vex him. I think he even resents our great expectations, though we go out of our way to let him see that we've honestly abandoned them! A pleasant drifting over summer seas, with agreeable company, and plenty of variety in it! That's the programme. We shall probably be wise to add a few storms and a good many minor squalls to get a true idea of it."

"It doesn't seem to lead to much."