The Limit Part 38

"All right, _I_ will. Come in the field."

"Well, I don't mind if you do. I'll say I took my hair down because it was heavy."

"You've tried to spoil yourself, but you haven't succeeded. Why did you do it, Gladys?"

"Seeing you was clever, I thought pr'aps I'd better try to look more grown-up."

"Ah! what a mistake! Your great charm is that you're such a regular J.F."

"What's that?"

"A _jeune fille_."

"What does that mean? What's a J.F. in English?"

"A jolly flapper."

"Oh, I say!"

In the field Vaughan, with several interruptions and reproaches for being a caution, managed to take the pad off her head and to throw it in the field. But an unfortunate thing happened. All the corn-coloured hair fell down over his face and he had kissed her--by accident--before he knew it.

"Oh, I say! You are a caution!" was her only remark. But she did not laugh, and as she hastily did a little amateur coiffing, he thought she looked slightly annoyed. At any rate, she hadn't much more to say to him, and he went back to London almost immediately, feeling quite absurdly agitated about such an unimportant trifle.

An hour later, when quietly at home in his study, Vaughan was suddenly seized by that species of madness that has been known to wreck careers, "to launch a thousand s.h.i.+ps," to cause all kinds of chaos. It was that terrible _once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine-I-must-and-shall-possess-her_ feeling in its most acute form. Most men have known it at some time in their lives. He thought of Harry de Freyne, and felt n.o.ble and superior in contrast to what _his_ conduct would have been, as he sat down and wrote with intense pleasure--

"Darling Gladys,

"I love you. Will you marry me? Please try. I'm writing to your father. Don't keep me waiting long for the answer.

"Yours for always, "GILLIE."

He then wrote a long and sensible letter to Mr. Brill; all business, respect, and urgency, saying he knew that Gladys was very young, but that he would make her happy, and so forth.

These two letters he sent off by express messenger in a taxicab to the "Bald-faced Stag," and then sat down to dinner.

What a dinner! And what an evening he spent! He planned a long journey--what fun to show the child new places and things! Why shouldn't he marry the charming, refined, and beautiful daughter of an hotel-keeper? He decided even on alterations in the house, and he meant to be ecstatically happy.

What did he care for people? He had never lived either to _epater_ the _bourgeois_ or to satisfy the ideal of the gentleman next door. He was going to do something _he_ liked!...

He woke up the next morning at six o'clock with a ghastly chilly horror on him. What had he done? Had he been mad? To marry Miss Brill, the daughter of the landlord of a little suburban public-house! A girl of sixteen, pretty enough certainly, but with no pretensions to being a lady, no possibility of having anything in common with him. But it wasn't so much the question of what people would say--of course, most of the women he knew would drop him, and the men would laugh at him and make love to her--but, how long would it last? How long would this strange mania endure? Perhaps not a week. The poor child would have an awful time, too. She was much happier as she was.

Well! He was a sportsman, and had taken the risk. He must wait now. At the back of his mind he was wondering how he could get out of it.

He had not to wait long. His letters were answered by the first post.

Evidently, the "Bald-faced Stag" had been kept up late that night to reply in time.

Gladys wrote very respectfully that she was very sorry she hadn't told him before, but she was privately engaged to the son of the landlord of the Green Man at Stanmore: the Eldest Son, she wrote with pride (as though he would inherit the t.i.tle). She was awfully sorry. Besides, she was going to be a manicure, first, for two years, and then settle down at Stanmore. Her fiance was twenty-one. She hoped Mr. Vaughan would come over to tea very soon, and she thought his letter was very kind, and remained his truly, Gladys Brill.

Mr. Brill had written a long and slightly rambling letter which suggested rough copies and even some a.s.sistance from the old vintages of the "Bald-faced Stag." He refused most firmly, though thoroughly sensible of the honour done him by Mr. Vaughan's offer, but he couldn't go back on his word to his friend at the Green Man. The arrangement had been made, when Gladys and the son were in their cradles, by him and his pal of the Green Man and he couldn't go back on his word. And Gladys liked the young chap; and it was a great honour, indeed, that Mr.

Vaughan had done them, and it would have been splendid for Gladys in the worldly sense. But there! it was better, perhaps, not to mix up Stations. Mr. Brill repeated this sentiment over and over again, always using a capital S for station--(as though Vaughan had expressed an insane desire to confuse Victoria with the Great Western). And he remained very respectfully, Tom Brill.

"A manicure in Bond Street and then the landlady of a common country inn! Never! She shan't! I'll go down and persuade her. I'll make them come round."

Vaughan was so hurt and disappointed that he felt he could never smile again.

But he did.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

TENSION

When the sisters came back from their drive Harry was sitting on the little marble terrace reading _Count Florio and Phillis K._ and smoking cigarettes. With almost conjugal unfairness he complained that Valentia always went out just before he arrived. In fact, he had begged her to get the visit over that afternoon, as he intended to be late.

Valentia sat down and began a lively account of "The Angles," but he implored her not to describe those awful people at home, and particularly not to tell him anything about that poisonous Belgian. Then he told Val that blue didn't suit her, and, when she agreed with him, petulantly complained that she had no ideas of her own.

"But I had an idea of my own; only now you say it's wrong."

"So it is. But, even if it is wrong, you should stick to it. You should have more individuality."

"What an awful word," she said.

"What's the matter with the word?"

"Nothing. It's so long."

"You're talking nonsense, Valentia."

"Well, why shouldn't I talk nonsense? I'm sure I've heard you say there's nothing so depressing as a woman with no nonsense about her."

"I know. But there needn't be nothing else."

"Harry, are you trying to quarrel? If so I'd better go away."

"Oh, all right! Very well! Do as you like," said Harry. "It seems a curious way to treat a guest: to go out when you expect him, and then the moment you come in to make an excuse to leave him alone again. But please yourself!"

He took up his book and turned away.

Valentia went into the house, to her room, and sat down opposite the looking-gla.s.s with a sigh. It was at moments like these that she sometimes thought, with a slight reaction, of Romer. Romer was never capricious, never irritable, never trying. It was true that he rarely answered her except in monosyllables, but yet she knew that he delighted in and tacitly encouraged her fluency. He did not respond to every idea she expressed as Harry did (when Harry was in a good temper), but she knew she had no better audience. His extreme quietness might be admitted, occasionally, to cast a slight gloom, but negatively what enormous advantages his silence had! Romer never scolded, never laid down the law; never thought it necessary to give her long, minute, detailed accounts of his impressions of art, or life, or literature; never insisted on pointing out, as if it were a matter of life and death, precisely where he differed in his opinions of a book, a play, or an incident, from the criticisms in the daily papers. Nor did he refer to some annoying past incident half a dozen times a day as a sealed subject. He had other qualities. He could take tickets, he could sign cheques (and even seemed to like doing it). He could see about things.