CHAPTER FOUR.

RIVAL INTERESTS.

That night Vanna lay awake long after lying down, living over again the dramatic happening of the last few days.

"`It's a mad world, my masters,'" she said to herself between a smile and a sigh. "No sooner do I receive a sentence of celibacy for life than I am promptly introduced to a new and interesting personality, a nice man, a superlatively nice man, a man, moreover, who shows every sign of returning the compliment and thinking me a superlatively nice girl into the bargain--when, presto! he discovers himself in the light of Jean's future husband. I know it, and she doesn't. The drollness of the situation! At this moment she is sleeping in placid innocence, while I am a-thrill at the dawning of her romance. She will marry him-- oh, yes! She will marry him; as certainly as she stood under that palm tree waiting to-night. What a lovely rose she made, and how his eyes glowed as he looked at her! Superstition or no superstition, that big, simple heart has accepted her as his wife as unquestionably as if a trumpet blast from heaven had proclaimed her name. It's such an easy thing to tumble into love with Jean; the trouble is for any masculine thing to keep steady on his feet. He will worship her, and she must love him in return, as the perfect complement of herself. He so calm, and trustful, and serene; she, airy, impulsive, rebellious; but even in her naughtiest moods so lovable and feminine a thing. Well! as I am never to have a romance of my own, I must needs find double interest in Jean's and enjoy myself vicariously through her. It will be quick work. That dramatic meeting carried him in a flash past all the initial stage of wonder and uncertainty. It's rather a pity, I should have loved to watch it grow; but it has sprung into life full-grown. Oh, Jean, Jean, how little you know--how little you guess!"

Then Vanna's thoughts flew back to the moment when, on the way through the ballroom, she had found herself alone with Robert Gloucester after the dramatic encounter in the conservatory. Their eyes had met, and she had spoken a few words on the flood of an overwhelming impulse.

"I won't tell her. I promise not to tell."

"Thank you," he had replied warmly. "It will be better. I would rather--"

He paused at that, but there was about him a transparency of candour which made it easy to divine what he had been about to say, "I'll would rather tell her myself!"

Vanna's heart knew a little cramp of envy at all which that sentence implied.

Next morning, over a late and leisurely breakfast, Jean had much to say on the subject of her last night's experiences.

"I danced a hole in my slippers--a little one, and quite a big one in Captain Gregson's heart. He is, like all sailors, absurdly susceptible. I made only my second-best eyes at him. Like this! In my best effort I look up helplessly, appealingly, and then, down, quite a long time down, because curling dark eyelashes look so well when one's cheeks are flushed. I just opened them rather widely at the Captain once or twice as we sat out after a dance, and he fell down flat. Dear, big, stupid thing, he can't take care of himself one bit. He asked if he might call, but I shan't be at home. I always stop short of the danger-point, as you know quite well, so don't make faces at me, my dear, and, above all things, don't preach. If you preached, I might be capable of seeing him, and showing my eyelashes. Opposition always drives me hard the other way. You looked tired, dear. Were you bored? Three separate men asked me who you were. I dissembled, and said you were `a Miss Strangeways,' and listened with all my ears to what they would say next. One said, `she is not exactly pretty, but one notices her. She has an air.' Another said, `I do like to see a girl well groomed. It's refreshing to look at her head.' The third said, `that girl would be worth knowing. It's a fine face.'"

Vanna's smile was a somewhat laboured effort.

"You mustn't repeat masculine compliments, Jean. They are forbidden sweets. I shall never settle down into a steady-going `Affliction Female' if you dangle worldly gauds before my eyes. I'm not going to any more balls. My capacity for frivol has died a violent death, and I feel all `out of the picture' in a ballroom. I must find more serious occupations for my life."

"Vanna, what rubbish! You are only twenty-three; you have your whole long life ahead. If it's going to be dull, that's all the more reason why you should enjoy yourself now. I thought you would live in town, and we should do everything together. Can't you forget the future, dear, and enjoy the hour--buying pretty things and wearing them, and music, and flowers, and dancing, and talking things over afterwards? That has always been one of the best bits--comparing notes after the fray; making fun of other people, and ourselves! _Don't_ fall out, Vanna, and leave me to go on alone!"

"You won't be alone!" The words were spoken instinctively, but Vanna drew herself up with instant compunction. "You have so many other friends, Jean, and I shall fall out for the festivities only. In all other respects we shall be as much together as before. Perhaps in time to come I may be festive once more, but for the moment I'm knocked out of time, and must hide my head like the ostrich. I made myself go to the ball last night, but it was not a success. I shan't try it again."

Jean lifted her chin, with the slightly obstinate expression in which she took refuge when her will was questioned.

"Oh-h! Well, you know best--or at least, you imagine you do. I should have thought, however, being of a simple and credulous nature, that you were enjoying yourself excessively when you walked through that conservatory last night. If you wished to hide your head at that moment you were a remarkably modest ostrich, for it looked most animated and attractive. Who was your partner, by the way? He looked quite nice."

"Quite nice!" Vanna lifted her coffee-cup to hide a twitching lip. Behold the historic moment, and the heroine's romantic impression of her future spouse. "I must remember this," was the mental resolve, as she answered tranquilly:

"He was more than nice, he was a delightful man. I was not introduced to him until after twelve o'clock, but our talk together was the best part of the evening. His name is Gloucester."

Jean dropped her fork with a little clatter of surprise.

"Gloucester? Not Robert Gloucester? Surely not! He could not possibly have been there."

"He was, though. Very much there, for he is staying in the house. He naively observed that he had intended to go to bed, but as the `confounded noise' had kept him awake, he came downstairs in desperation, and Miss Morton introduced him to me. You did not look as if you recognised each other."

"We didn't! I have never seen him before, but I have heard--oh, my dear, libraries about him! He is the Mortons' theme. We all have themes, on which we fall back on every possible pause of the conversation. My theme, poor butterfly, is fun and clothes; yours, my angel, has been the same, plus a tinge of duty and maiden aunt; the Mortons' is Robert Gloucester, his words, deeds, thoughts, looks, ideas. He's been abroad for years and years, chiefly occupied in losing his money, so far as I can understand. He seems to have a specialty for losing money, but their infatuation is such that it is counted to him as an added charm. The boring times I have had listening to prosy accounts of his trials and adventures, when I have wanted to discuss a hat! And then at last he was coming home, the ball was arranged so that he should be there, I expected him to dance half the night with me: it was the least he could do, considering how I had suffered for him; and behold he hides upstairs, and creeps down to sit on balconies with another girl! Wretch! Why on earth could they not have introduced him to me, instead of to you?"

"You were not sitting by your lone, a dejected wallflower, while your partners gorged in the supper-room. I was. We took pity on one another, and determined to talk, not dance."

"And pray, what did you talk about?"

Again Vanna's lip gave a quick, involuntary twitch.

"Different things. He told me that he had just returned to England, and spoke of foreign countries--his adventures--"

"Oh, but this must be stopped!" Jean shook her head with would-be solemnity. "The Mortons have advertised him sufficiently in advance; he really cannot be allowed to be egotistical on his own account. I shall take him in hand. I shall say to him gently but firmly, `My excellent youth, your biography has already run through many editions. Let it rest. Variety is refreshing for mind as well as body. Allow your thoughts to stray for a moment to some one besides your wonderful self. Think, for example, of _Me_!'"

She waved her hand in dramatic fashion as she spoke, flashing a mischievous glance at her friend, her face a-sparkle with mischief. Jean's vivid young beauty seemed ever to be asserting itself in fresh phases, so that even those who lived in the same house and looked upon her every day of their lives were continually evoked to fresh admiration. As in watching the movements of an exquisite child, moments of satiety seemed impossibly remote.

Vanna thought with a leaping pulse: "How he will love her!" and smiled back tenderly into the glowing face.

How soon, and in what fashion would the dramatic meeting take place? She was possessed with an immense curiosity to forecast the events of the next few days. Robert Gloucester would not, she was convinced, be content to wait upon chance, but having been vouchsafed a glimpse of his treasure, would not rest until he had furthered the acquaintance. In a light, unsuspicious manner it was evident that Jean's expectation had also been aroused, for as the visiting hour of the afternoon drew near she displayed an unwillingness to leave the house, donned her prettiest dress, and seated herself in the drawing-room, in what was evidently a waiting mood.

"Put a rose in your belt, Jean. You ought always to wear a rose," Vanna said, holding out a bowl of fragrant blooms for approval, and Jean obeyed, casting the while a smilingly defiant glance at the angular woman who sat knitting near at hand. If ever the word spinster was written large over a human creature, it was written over Mrs Goring, wife of the genial Philip, and stepmother to his daughter Jean. Yet she was not only a wife, but a mother, and her husband and the two growing schoolboys regarded her with a sincere if somewhat prosaic affection. Jean's mental position with regard to her stepmother was somewhat more complicated. "I love her with my head, with my judgment, with my conscience; on Sundays, when the sermon is extra good; when she has asthma, and gasps for breath; when the boys are ill, and she looks white and trembly; at other times--_no_! with my heart--_never_! We are miles apart, and no bridge is long enough to bring us together. I am her husband's daughter, so it is her duty to feel an affection for me; she never shirks a duty, so she tries hard morning and evening to love me as she should, and asks forgiveness every night because she can't manage to do it. I don't try--because I'm bad, you'll say; really, because I'm too wise. It's no use _trying_ to love; but I'm far more obedient and docile than I should be if she were my own dear mother. I should have teased her, and argued, and been cross and perverse--every naughty thing in turn, as the mood took me; and then I should have been sorry, and cried, and she would have forgiven me, and we'd have loved each other harder than ever. But the mater and I never quarrel. That ought to score a great big mark to our credit."

On the present occasion Mrs Goring justified her character for keeping her temper, for, trying as it was to her practical nature to behold her stepdaughter decking herself with flowers in the afternoon, and idling over a piece of useless crewel work, she made no spoken protest, but contented herself with pursing her thin lips, and clicked her knitting-needles together as she worked.

Presently a visitor was announced, and then another; tea was served, and it was after five o'clock when at last the announcement came for which both girls had been impatiently waiting.

"Miss Morton, Mr Gloucester."

The girl swept in with the assurance of an intimate friend. Robert Gloucester followed slowly, his spare figure towering above hers, his face set and strained. Vanna saw at a glance that he was consumed with nervousness, and during the first ten minutes of his stay he hardly allowed himself a glance in Jean's direction. When she handed tea he took it with eyes fixed on the cup, and promptly sought the corner by Vanna's side to mumble platitudes about the weather, and listen absently to her replies.

How long would Jean allow so unsatisfactory a state of affairs? "I'll give her five minutes," was Vanna's verdict; but before that time had elapsed Jean had so cleverly manipulated the conversation that Vanna was being questioned across the length of the drawing-room, so that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to suggest a change of seats.

"Come over here, Vanna, dear, and tell them all about it! I'll talk to Mr Gloucester!" Jean floated across the room in her white dress, and laid a caressing hand on her friend's shoulder. It was a pure impulse of coquetry which made her take the rose from her belt as she seated herself in the discarded corner of the sofa. One could make such pretty by-play with a flower, twirling it to and fro, stroking the petals, daintily drinking in its fragrance. To the woman that rose gave an added consciousness of power; from the man the sight of it took away what little composure he retained. His hand shook until the teaspoon rattled against the cup; and he placed it unemptied on the table by his side. He stammered; he was unhinged, tongue-tied. Jean, who had been prepared to rebuke self-confidence, adopted an instant change of tactics. Her little airs and graces died a rapid death; the tilt of the head was replaced by a gentle droop, her complacent smile changed to an artless appeal. The poor, dear man must be encouraged. He had been buried in the wilds, with lions and elephants for companions; he was all unnerved to find himself in an English drawing-room, face to face with a pretty girl.

"I've waited such a long time to see you," said Jean softly. "Edith and I are great friends and she has told me so much about you. I could stand quite a stiff examination on your doings and goings of the last few years. Some day you shall cross-question me and see. When I've been particularly good I've even heard extracts from your letters. I can't possibly treat you as a stranger!"

"I--I ought to apologise. I hope you have not been bored."

He looked up as he spoke, and for the first time met the full gaze of Jean's eyes--those eyes which were a revelation of beauty even to dull elderly members of her own sex. Gloucester's gaze lingered with an intensity which held her bound in return; but mingling with his eagerness was an expression of humility, almost of awe, which Jean found strangely disconcerting. She lowered her lids at his glance, forgetful for once of the effect of fringed ladies, and made her reply with a little tremble of nervousness in her voice.

"Not at all bored, but very interested. Are you glad to be back in England; and how does it look to you after your long absence? Are you going to stay at home?"

"I'm glad--immensely glad! Yes, I shall stay," he said with abrupt, almost violent emphasis. Then more quietly, "The country looks--_neat_! Such neat little fields on either side the line. I should grow impatient in the country, but London enthrals. I love the dull old roar, and the smoke, and the misty light of this weak little sun. A man who has lived long abroad seldom cares for rural England, but he never loses his love of London. It is the best of its kind--there's something in that; but the country is tame."

Jean mused, a smile twitching her lips.

"I have always said that if I could choose an exact site for my home of the future I'd have the front windows facing west over a range of mountains, the bigger the better--the Himalayas for choice--and the back windows over Piccadilly! Our tastes agree, it appears; but for pity's sake don't let our sun hear you speaking in such disrespectful tones. It is so touchy and difficile that it is capable of sulking and hiding for weeks together, and we have been paying it such compliments these last days. `Blazing!' We preferred to stay indoors this afternoon because it was `blazing.' Soon we shall declare that it is impossible to stay in town, and shall fly away to the country. In a couple of weeks London will be emptied of every one who is not chained to a desk."

"Where shall you go?" he asked directly.

Jean glanced at him, and discovered to her surprise that the question was no idle inquiry put to help in a lagging conversation, but a request for information seriously desired. She was not offended, but a feminine impulse prompted her to prevaricate.

"Oh, to the sea, I suppose. I possess two small brothers who insist upon the sea for their holidays. I suppose you will be going to Hampshire with the Mortons. The Moat will seem a haven of rest and green after the East. The gardens are more entrancing than ever. Such flowers!" She lifted the rose to her face as if reminded of its presence, stroked her cheek with its velvety petals, and let it drop into her lap. A heightened voice sounded from the end of the room, and the quick movement of interest with which she turned to see what was happening sent the rose spray rolling softly to the ground. She bent forward to regain it, but Gloucester was quicker than she; he held it firmly in his big brown hand, not offering a return, but looking down at it with an expression which Jean found strangely eloquent.

"It is a long time since you have seen English flowers. To an Englishman nothing can ever be quite so beautiful. You must be glad you came home in the time of roses!"

The intentionally soft tone of the girl's voice threw into greater contrast the man's hoarse accents.

"Will you give it to me? May I keep it?"

Jean stared, her delicate brows arched in dignified surprise. Certainly she would not give a flower which she had been wearing to a perfect stranger, and that in the presence of three pairs of watching eyes. This Robert Gloucester was disconcertingly direct, and must be kept in his place--gently, however, for he had other points in his favour, such as being young and handsome, and transparently impressed by herself.

"Not this one, I think. It is too faded and tired. I am cruel to flowers when I wear them. I can't leave them alone. Please take your choice from any in that bowl. They are all quite fresh!"

She held out her hand, gently imperious, and Gloucester mutely returned the rose. He could do no less; but his air was so discouraged, so out of all proportion abashed, that the girl felt a swift remorse. It was like disappointing an eager child, and watching the shadowing of the happy face. Now it was not her own wish, but simply the presence of onlookers which prevented the refusal from being changed into consent. She laid the recovered flower on the table beside the fragrant bowl of roses, almost disliking it for having been the cause of this check in the conversation. Her eyes softened, she smiled into Gloucester's troubled face with her sweetest, most childlike expression, and prattled dainty nonsense, unchecked by his lack of response. Presently he began to smile; it was impossible to resist Jean when she set herself to charm, but once and again the murmured answers missed the point, and she was conscious that, though his thoughts were absorbed in herself, he was paying scant heed to her words. The mysterious nervousness which had affected her at his first gaze returned to Jean once more in the process of this one-sided conversation; she turned her head to where the three ladies were sitting, and met Edith Morton's eyes fixed upon herself with an intensity of scrutiny which aroused a quick suspicion.

Edith did not care to see her guest monopolised; she was not content to be banished to the end of the room. Jean smiled and raised her voice, addressing her directly by name, so as to show her desire for a general conversation.

"I have been telling Mr Gloucester, Edith, that when I was very good you used to read me extracts from his letters, and thrill me by repeating his adventures. They were such nice, full, detaily letters. I think you would get a prize in a foreign correspondence competition, Mr Gloucester. Most men write such scrappy notes."

"Ah, I should have been ungrateful if I had done that, for Edith sent me such splendid letters from home. No one knows how a fellow appreciates letters when he is abroad--a blank mail is a blighting experience. Edith has been a brick to me in that way; as good as any sister."

He smiled at the girl as he spoke, and Edith Morton smiled bravely back. Gloucester saw nothing strained or unnatural in that smile, but the three women divined its secret with lightning intuition. Poor Edith who had watched and waited all these years, counting each day as it passed, enduring a grey present in the hope of a golden future which would surely begin when the Prince returned to his own. And now her long wish was fulfilled--her hero was restored to her side, not unconscious of her care, but full of gratitude and affection. He smiled at her with kindly eyes, he paid her public thanks, he compared her to a sister, and Edith's heart cramped with despair.

She was a tall, slight girl, with dark hair, a dull complexion, and pretty eyes. She dressed tastefully, though without style, and spoke with a delightfully clear, musical intonation. When addressed she had a trick of drooping her head, which gave her a somewhat timid and shrinking air, and her hands were small and white. Women admired and loved her, and constantly asked of each other, "Why is she not married?" Men passed her by as if unconscious of her presence. The mysterious quality which attracts masculine approval was lacking in her case, and until the present she had not regretted its absence.

The while Gloucester continued an easy flow of conversation, the same thought passed through the mind of each feminine hearer. If Edith wished to appropriate this man for herself, why had she so hastened to bring him into the temptation of Jean Goring's presence? Jean, with her characteristic impulsiveness made a dozen impossible resolutions to keep out of Robert's path; to be cold to him, to refuse to speak. Vanna sighed over the hardness of fate which ever advances to its festivals over the corpses of the slain. Mrs Goring, with tightened lips, sneered at the blindness of men whose vision was blinded by a pretty face. Edith, with a sad pride, told herself that above all things sincerity was the most precious, and that if Gloucester were to be hers, it must be of his own unbiased will. If he loved her--if he were even beginning to love her--Jean's beauty would leave him untouched. Every day one beheld ordinary-looking women wooed by men who had passed by others infinitely more favoured, to seek them out. Beauty meant much, but it was not all. The mystic tie of affinity in no way depended on its presence. Robert and Jean were bound to meet during the next few weeks; her own influence should be used to make those meetings more frequent, rather than less. She would condescend to no scheming to attain what was worth having only if it came as a free-will gift.

When she spoke again it was to invite Jean and her friend to dinner the next evening.

"We are expecting some of Robert's old friends, and we need you two girls to balance numbers. You must come!"

Jean hesitated. She had just decided to refuse all invitations; but this was put in the light of a favour, which it would seem discourteous to refuse. Besides, Vanna had seemed interested in Robert Gloucester. She must consider poor, dear Vanna!

"You are sure you want us? Really? It seems so soon to come again. If any of the men drop out, be sure to let us know. We shall quite understand," she replied, assuaging her conscience with this loophole of escape, and Edith rose to say good-bye, smiling another difficult smile.

It was Jean's usual custom to accompany her friend downstairs at the end of each visit, linking arms, and standing long in the hall as one item of news after another presented itself for discussion; but to-day she rang the bell for a maid, and made her adieux at the drawing-room door; the most careless and perfunctory of adieux to the man, to the girl a kiss, and an eloquent grip of the hand. Edith was her friend, a friend of years' standing; and Jean, for all her flirtatious nature, was loyal to her sex. The last thing she would wish to do would be to annex another girl's lover. Nevertheless it was with a sigh and an unusual sense of depression that she re-entered the drawing-room. Vanna was standing by the sofa in the corner, looking down on the carved oak table. Jean's eyes followed hers, and her heart gave a sudden, startling leap. The bowl of roses was untouched, but the table was bare, the faded bud had disappeared!