Rest Harrow: A Comedy of Resolution Part 8

They are leaping like the boys in _Eugene Aram,_ and I'm going to give them something to leap at. Now, what are all you people going to do?

Because, I'll be free with you, I don't want you to come and look on. Mrs.

Devereux, I let you off. You needn't gillie me. Nevile, you run away and play. Amuse Mrs. Wilmot. Do now: she likes it. I'm all right."

The elder lady fixed him keenly with a look which saw through his saucy a.s.surance; Ingram's eyes sought those of Mrs. Wilmot across the table. She lent him their wonder for a moment, then looked down at her bosom. He was satisfied. There were still women in the world.

"What shall we do?" he asked her. "Will you be driven? Will you drive?

Will you ride?" Another shaft rewarded him, which said, "Do with me as you will."

Ingram rang the bell. Minnie appeared. "Tell Frodsham, the horses at a quarter past eleven. I ride Sea-King, Mrs. Wilmot Lorna Doone. He had better come--or b.u.t.ters will do. That's all."

Mrs. Devereux had been ignored, but was not displeased. It showed, at least, that Ingram knew she was not to be disposed of like a white rabbit.

It was, however, necessary to say something, to declare one's presence, as it were; so she collected her papers. "I have letters to write. You will excuse me, I know."

Chevenix sprang to the door. "By George, I should think so," he said, which was well intended, but too brisk. He bowed her out, shut her out, and stood with his eyes on the others.

Ingram remained before the fire looking out of window. "She's in a wax. I don't know why."

"Oh, don't you, my boy?" said Chevenix to himself.

Mrs. Wilmot trifled with her tea-spoon. "And I don't care--much," he added. Mrs. Wilmot smiled.

Mr. Chevenix, going a-fis.h.i.+ng, saw, as he had intended to see, Sanchia in the rose-garden, talking to Struan Glyde, who was tying ramblers.

"Morning, Sanchia--morning, Glyde!" Each greeted him, but the youth grimly.

He talked at large. "I'm for murder. I must flesh my steel. It's too good a day to lose. Clouds scurry, sun is shy; air's balmy: a trout must die.

That is very nearly poetry, Sancie. It is as near poetry as I can hope to get this side the harps and quires. Now, what on earth is Clyde doing to his roses at this time of year?"

The dark-skinned, sharp-chinned young man, ap.r.o.ned and s.h.i.+rt-sleeved, turned a shade darker. His black eyes glowed. He was quietly arrogant, even to her. "It doesn't matter," he had once told her, "what you say or do. I love you, and that's the sum and end of it." Now he allowed her to answer for him.

"There was a wind in the night which tore them about. I asked him to make them safe. I hate to think of their bruised ribs."

Chevenix whistled his satisfaction with this and all things else. "I see.

Works of mercy. There's a blessing on that, somewhere and somewhen. All to the good, you know, Clyde. You never know your luck, they tell me." He left Clyde and his roses, and turned to the young lady. "Well now, look here, Sancie--if works of mercy are toward, what d'you say to one on your own account? Here I stand, an orphan boy, upon my honour. The master's gone riding with the widow." He stopped his rattle, as a thought struck him serious for a moment. "By George, and he's a widower--so he is!"

Discharged of that, he resumed--"Yes, and Mrs. Devereux has got the hump, as they say--and here I am at your mercy, to be made much of. Who's going to admire me? Who's going to hold my net? Who's going to say, 'Oh, what a beauty!'" He had now got her thoroughly at her old ease with him. Her eyes gleamed, and there was no doubting her smile. "Now, I'll tell you what.

Your roses are all right. Glyde will see to that. You leave that to Glyde and his strong right arm. His strength is as the strength of ten, because... you follow me, I think? Now, Sancie, I put it to you--I'm an old friend of the family, and haven't seen you for--how many years? Aren't you going to give me half-an-hour of your morning?"

He pleaded by looks. He was quizzical, but in earnest. Her brow was clear.

"Yes," she said. "I'll come--for half-an-hour."

"Right! Right, G.o.ddess of the silver brake. Come, hold the pa.s.s with me."

He turned to go, and she caught him up. "I mix my poets like salad, but that's because I'm in such high spirits. By Jove, Sancie, it _is_ good to see you again." She met his laughing eyes with hers. She swam by his side --took his net, and was happy. Her face glowed. She had the power of casting troubles behind, recuperative power, resiliency. Glyde, the olive- faced, watched them down the walk, and owned to a heart of lead. "As well shut down the west wind as a spirit like hers!" He turned to his affair.

Below the steps, in the nut-walk which led to the bridge, Chevenix altered his tone. "It's good of you to come with me, Sancie, my dear. I'm a very friendly beggar, and Nevile, you know--I say!" and he turned her a sober face--"You know, I suppose? His wife--eh? Dead, you know. Oh, but of course you did!"

She met him unfalteringly. "Yes, he told me."

Chevenix shrugged. "I must say, you know--what? Oh, of course, it was a ghastly affair all along. But _you_ know all that, as well as I do. Why, her temper! Oh, awful! I've seen her myself dead-white in one of her rages--she had hold of a wine-gla.s.s so hard that it snapped, and cut her hand. She looked at the blood--she didn't know how it happened. And he-- well, _you_ ought to know--was as bad, in his way. 'Pon my soul, Sancie, Vesuvius might just as well have married Etna--every bit. But there!

What's the good of talking! Everybody knew how it would be." Words failing him, he stared about him.

"But still--oh, d.a.m.n it all! To hear of your wife's death--casually--on a platform--from a chap you happen to know--happen to have met somewhere-- oh, well, I call it casual. That's the word, I believe--casual. Well, it _is_ pretty casual--what? Now, just tell me what you think--between friends, of course."

She stopped him: she was short in the breath. "I think not. If you don't mind."

He became as serious, immediately, as he was capable of being. "I'll do as you like, my dear--but you'll let me say this, that if I could see you with all your belongings about you again, I should sing a hymn. That's all, Sancie; but it means a lot. When you went out of Great c.u.mberland Place, it became, somehow, another kind of place. I hardly ever go there now, you know. And now they're all married but you, and--I say, you heard that Vicky had a son and heir? Did you hear that?"

She had averted her face, but she listened intensely, nodding her head.

"Yes, yes, I knew that. Papa told me. He always writes to me, you know; from the office, poor darling!"

She appealed to him urgently. "Please don't talk about them just yet.

Please don't."

He saw the mist in her eyes, and was afraid. "All right, Sancie, all right. I'm frightfully sorry. Beastly painful all this, you know." He was much disturbed. To his simple soul a fine day, a fine-fettled river demanded, as of right, a happy mood in man, for whom all things were made.

And a fine girl by his side, a good, a brave, a splendid girl--down on her luck--on such a day! What could one do? If, when you began, she choked you off! Wouldn't meet you half-way--bottled it up! And here he was, geared for fis.h.i.+ng, and without the heart to wet a line, because of all this misery. Sanchia, sharply in profile to him, from cheek to chin, from shoulder to low breast, all one sinuous, lax, beautiful line, broke in on his rueful meditations. "There's a rise," she said. "Look, look."

His eye swept the river. "You're right. By Gad, that's a whacker. That's a fish. Now, you stop just where you are, net in hand. Don't move, and you shall see something."

He left her, and ran stooping down the bank, all his little soul concentrated in his cast. The dimpled water ran and swirled, the line flashed in the sun. Three casts, four; a splash, a taut line, and his shout, "Come on, quick; I've got him." Sanchia glided swiftly down the bank, her eyes alight, the lines of neck and shoulder finely alert. Her eyes shone, her lips parted; she looked the Divine Huntress to whom Senhouse had once likened her. She stooped, the net jerked; she watched, waited, tense to the act. Within the swirling water the great fish plunged: she watched, strung to the pounce; the net dipped and darted; she lifted it to land.

Chevenix admired. "By George, you are a one--er, I must say! Born to it.

You strike like an osprey. That's a fish--what?" They peered together into the net, where, coiled and ma.s.sy, beaming rose and pale gold, the trout writhed.

"Splendid!" breathed Sanchia, glowing and alight.

Chevenix gloried in her beauty. "If Nevile don't know what his chances are--if he ain't on his knees--my heavens, what a mate for a chap!"

A shadow falling upon him caused him to look up. Mrs. Devereux, grey and tall, boa'd, gloved, umbrella'd, stood regarding him and his companion from the bank. Instinct prompted him immediately to screen Sanchia by dragging her into the party. He held up the net and plunged. "First prize," he cried out, as heartfully as he could, "to me and Miss Percival."

"So I see," said Mrs. Devereux. "Ah, good morning."

This was to Sanchia's bland greeting, which, as always, made the lady s.h.i.+ver. It is difficult to say what a shock it was to her to be greeted cheerfully by Sanchia. To see one in so painful a situation occupied by anything less painful, interested in anything at all, was truly shocking.

Mrs. Devereux's idea of irregularity was that it absorbed the devoted victim, kept her aghast. If it did not, surely, there was no reward left to the virtuous. But here we had a highly irregular young woman behaving with extreme regularity. Was the world turning upside down? Was black, then, really white? She s.h.i.+vered, she blinked her eyes; but she descended the bank and stood beside the pair, yet rigidly apart.

Chevenix, having got her there, knew not what to do with her. It seemed to him that he had better, on the whole, go on, so turned the lady a knowing face.

"This is not the first time by any means that Miss Percival and I have gone fis.h.i.+ng, you must know. We began by tickling 'em--we were urchins together, you see."

"Really!" said Mrs. Devereux, who still saw nothing but depravity.

"I remember," he went on, "the first time we went fis.h.i.+ng. I was at Alnmouth with a governess; awful lonely little beggar I was. I used to moon about on the sands, while she read the _Morning Post_, with spectacles and a red parasol. And I used to hanker about all the other young 'uns, and wish I was one of 'em. _Her_ party was there, you know-- five of 'em, all girls and all pretty girls--eh, Sancie? I would have given my hopes of heaven--if I'd had any, you know--to go and paddle with 'em. Jolly party you were, my dear--jolly old plump papa, rosy mamma--and Philippa like a young tree, and Melusine and Hawise bright as apples; and then Vicky and you--little dears, you were. I was like a spent salmon, I believe, lantern jawed, hollow-eyed little devil, as solitary as sin." He turned, flushed, to Sanchia, and put his hand on her arm; she turned away her face, and Mrs. Devereux believed she saw tears. "It was _you_ who took me in, you know."

"No," said Sanchia, turning him her s.h.i.+ning eyes. "It was Vicky. She asked you to come fis.h.i.+ng." He accepting her ruling.

"Bless me, it _was_ Vicky. Always a frisky one. But after that it was always you and Vicky and me. And we had the time of our lives--at least, I did." Even Mrs. Devereux felt an emotion from the beam with which Sanchia rewarded him--a tender, compa.s.sionate look, as if she understood and excused him.

"You are old friends, I see," she said; and her smile was not unfriendly.

Chevenix shook his head wisely. "Frightfully old--I've known 'em all--all my life." Mrs. Devereux then made a distinct advance.