CHAPTER XIII
THE FOLLY OF SIMPLICITY
Together they entered the central hall, and saw Mariana standing waiting there. When she saw Rosalie she stepped towards her, but on seeing Mr. Barringcourt beyond her she stood still.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked.
“For Rosalie. It is long past her time for coming in.”
“You have wonderful patience to stand here waiting. Anyone else would have gone to look for her.”
“If one waits long enough one generally gets what one wants,” she answered, rather irrelevantly.
“Well, don’t stand there any longer. You’re not needed.”
“Thank you.”
She turned away with grace and easy dignity, and walked toward the staircase; but when there she looked across at Rosalie.
“Tea is ready.”
What a dungeon-knell there was in those three words! Tea in that little shabby sitting-room, away from everything of light, or life, or understanding. A piece of bread, a cup of tea and whatever else was going, eaten alone, and the dreariness of a long dull evening beyond. And somehow or other the thought of the evening frightened Rosalie. It was so dark. The long passages above so ghostly, dim, and silent. And below? She shivered and looked towards the door of the eastern wing, that in some unaccountable way seemed to pervade all things with its shadow and odour of graves.
So though Mariana, after she had spoken, stood still and waited a while for the effect of her words, Rosalie delayed to follow her.
The freedom and grandeur of the sunset was still running in her veins; the pleasantness of conversation and companionship had its influence on her also.
“Ought I to go?” she asked suddenly, looking up at Mr. Barringcourt.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. If you admire Mariana as much as you profess I think you should go.”
“It isn’t a case of Mariana. It’s me—myself.”
“Well, what of you?”
“I’d much rather stay, and have my tea with—with you.”
“I don’t indulge in tea.”
“Then do they insist on your eating a red lozenge instead?”
“Oh, no! They recognise that I am quite able to look after myself.”
“Everard told me I was capable of doing that. And yet at dinner-time to-day I was presented with a red lozenge on a silver salver to take the place of ordinary food.”
“And you accepted it?”
“No, I didn’t. But if you don’t have tea, I’d better leave you.”
“I’ll waive a point to-night. I have had so pleasant a holiday that it is somewhat distasteful to settle down again. Go and remove your hat, and come down.”
But when Rosalie essayed to move towards the staircase she found Mariana gone, and suddenly she stood still.
“Why do you stop?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m frightened! I really am! I dare not go about this place at night by myself. I don’t know how it is, but I dare not.”
“Nothing will hurt you.”
“It’s the shadows and the darkness—and the silence.”
“Run along. It’s your imagination.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing to be frightened of?”
“Nothing!”
So Rosalie went, and returned like the wind. Her eyes shone with fear, and her breath came in quick pants.
“What did you see?” he asked, laughing.
“Nothing! I did not stay long enough.”
So then, in the comfortable cheerfulness of Mr. Barringcourt’s study, they had tea.
Rosalie sat in the big arm-chair by the fire; he in his customary one drawn from the table. Very proud she felt to pour out tea, and quite forgave the youth who waited on them for his officious behaviour of the morning. Besides, this was such delicious tea. It was not a bit like that which she had upstairs. The china was superb, with far richer colours than Crown Derby, or anything at all resembling it upon the planet Lucifram.
No wonder that, in the midst of all this luxury and comfort, with a glorious fire and sufficient light, she heaved an unconscious sigh of great contentment.
“Still discontented?” asked Mr. Barringcourt, breaking the heavenly silence.
“Oh, no! Just the opposite. I sighed because I was so happy.”
“Have you any book on etiquette?” he continued, casting an eye round his own well-filled book-shelves thoughtfully.
“Etiquette? What is that?”
“Good behaviour, I think, but I’m not sure.”
“No, I haven’t any book on etiquette; but I remember what my aunt taught me.”
“Well, what did she tell you?” he asked, leaning his head against the chair-back, and looking across at her out of half-closed eyes.
“She told me always to be polite to people, and unselfish. You see, there wasn’t much else she could tell, because I couldn’t talk.”
“To be polite and unselfish! Umph! that’s good behaviour, is it? I think I’ve explained etiquette wrongly to you, then.” After a silence he continued: “I believe etiquette has to do with correct behaviour. Do you know anything about that?”
“Oh! I expect that is being stiff. No, I don’t know anything about that. We weren’t at all stiff at home. You see, there was no need to be. We had no servants nor anything, and we always said what we thought. At least, uncle and aunt did, and I listened. But why are you asking about it?”
“I’m very undecided in my mind about you.”
“Yes. I get very undecided about myself sometimes. I don’t think aunt would approve of me altogether now.”
“In what way?”
“My tongue. It is so sharp, you know. You said it was.”
“Oh! I’m not thinking about your tongue. I am trying to settle whether we are breaking the laws of etiquette in thus drinking tea together.”
“Oh, no! The curates always do it, and they are more correct than anybody. They like you to offer them tea. Aunt used to say so.”
“Then we are just as we should be?”
“Yes. Does Lady Flamington never come to have tea with you?”
“No; I generally go there.”
“Well, it’s just the same.”
“Who told you of Lady Flamington?”
“Mariana. Mariana does not give you a very good character, you know?”
“And is your strength of mind great enough to withstand her libels?”
“Well, yes. I like to form my own opinions. Besides, the best fun is, Mariana does not understand she’s saying anything against you. She tells me all kinds of things, taking you quite for granted.”
“When do you find time for these interesting conversations?”
“At night—and sometimes in the early morning. She never neglects her work to gossip. But when she talks it’s always to the point.”
“Rosalie, if you wish to possess any fascination, which is another word for beauty, you must learn to keep all your thoughts, opinions, and feelings to yourself. It is not conducive to interest to be told of a person’s state too freely. One must be left to find it for oneself.”
“Do you find me uninteresting?”
“Very much so. I do not know another man of my acquaintance on Lucifram who would tolerate your company for half an hour.”
Her eyes travelled to his with a very real and living pain in them.
“I don’t know anything about men except that they’re very clever. But I’d be quite content to earn the good graces of the women.”
“Why either?”
“Oh, because one must be friendly somewhere. It would be awful to have no friends at all, men or women.”
“How many friends would you need for happiness?”
“As many as I could get. You see, when you’re poor you can’t expect to have many.”
“And when you’re rich you have less.”
“No, indeed. I’m sure you have heaps of friends, Mr. Barringcourt.”
He laughed in a harsh, dry sort of way.
“You flatter me. In reality, I have no more friends than you.”
“But Lady Flamington?—Why, Mariana says she is in love with you.”
Mr. Barringcourt bit his lip; but the smile debarred access there travelled to his eyes.
“Well, what if she is in love with me, as you call it. That makes her one of my worst enemies.”
“Oh, no! To love anybody is to be their best and biggest friend.”
“I grant if the love be disinterested; but then, how often is it so?”
“What does disinterested mean?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” he answered impatiently; “you must look it out in a dictionary.”
“I’m sorry,” Rosalie answered meekly, “but I thought disinterested meant unselfish—and I can’t understand love being anything else.”
“Can’t you? Then you have much to learn. Why do you love the Serpent?”
The question came with unexpected rapidity.
“I don’t. I—I—I—” Another pause upon the thrice repeated unlucky vowel—and Rosalie shivered from head to foot quite coldly.
“Is this an attempt at fascination?”
The tone was so cold and cruel, and the words carried so sharp a sting, that they cut Rosalie’s heart like some whip might have done.
She shook her head.
“I don’t understand the Serpent,” she said, rubbing her hands against the chair arm. “How, then, can I love it?”
“That implies that you _do_ understand the Serpent, and therefore you are not disposed to love him.”
“You aspire to understand me better than I understand myself.”
“Oh, no! I take you at your own word. I asked you did you love the Serpent, and you said, ‘I don’t.’ Surely there was not much to understand in that.”
“Don’t let us quarrel,” pleaded Rosalie.
“Quarrel? Quarrel? Oh, no, certainly not. I had no intention of quarrelling with you. I remember your telling me the other day you had no particular affection for the god of Lucifram.”
“But do _you_ love the Serpent?”
“Oh! I—I—I—”
“That is unkind of you, and not polite.”
“We ought to have your aunt here to act as chaperon. They say it’s scarcely wise to leave a man and woman to themselves, and now I recognise it.”
But Rosalie was not far behind in the argument. From cold shivers she began to experience a certain amount of heat.
“I don’t know about a chaperon,” she said. “I thought a chaperon was a woman who looked after a woman, and I should like to know who looks after the men? Chaperons are silly and stupid, and women, if they were honest, would say they wanted to have nothing to do with them. Besides, it was you who lost your temper then. I didn’t a bit. I haven’t yet, only you annoyed me by the way you spoke.”
“I? lost my temper?”
“Yes, of course. You know you did. You think I’ve got a secret, and I haven’t; so if you don’t like, you needn’t be nice to me any more.”
And Mr. Barringcourt laughed. Under that laugh Rosalie shrivelled up like a white butterfly under the breath of ice.
“But I do like,” he answered, still laughing. “You must not quote from Mariana. It is too absurd. And so you have no secret. I can scarcely imagine a woman without one, nor a man.”
The merciless mocking eyes were fixed on her, so that she seemed incapable of moving. There rose within her a terrible weakness, a longing to lean on him, to be guided by his advice, to speak of all those doubts that preyed upon her mind, and state the few plain facts that raised them. Again, as before in the garden, she recognised that he was strong, and she was very, very weak. She looked across at him. There was little of sympathy on his face—much of contempt and ridicule—and Rosalie, sensitive to both, shrank from it and him.
A very awkward pause followed—to her, at least.
“I think the tea-party is ended,” he said, getting up and pushing his chair back to the table. “It was very enjoyable whilst it lasted, but there is such a thing as folk outstaying their welcome.”
But still she sat still, and made no effort to rise.
“What has made you angry?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. You say I’m angry, so I must be. You should be able to discover the cause when you’ve noticed the effect.”
“I can’t. But when I stumble or stammer I notice it always puts you out.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“I’ll try not. But if I sometimes said the things I thought, they’d sound so foolish that you’d laugh at them.”
“They could not possibly be more foolish than the things you say.”
“Are all the women of your acquaintance very sensible and clever?”
“More or less so. Of course, they have the advantage of education and upbringing; but still that does not do away with the fact that they possess many natural gifts.”
“It must be very nice to possess natural gifts.”
“Yes. Few women are born without them.”
“Am I one of the few?”
“So far as I can judge you are. With talent and cleverness, you should be able to escape from prison.”
“But I’m staying here on principle. I never thought of trying to get away.”
“That shows your inherent stupidity, and a surprising lack of spirit. Cannot you find a door of escape?”
Rosalie shook her head and sighed.
“No,” she answered. “I thought of the chimney once, but that was absurd.”
“Can you think of no other door?”
“No. It’s no good my trying to get out where every door is either locked or guarded.”
“You have not wit enough to think of one, you mean?”
“Perhaps so,” she answered, and looked at him with eyes full of a great and wistful longing to be told.
“Well, I’ll tell you. There is the door of my heart. Any other woman would have thought of it at once.”
She shook her head.
“I’ve had no practice that way. I shouldn’t know how to go about to find it.”
“No? As women go, you are intensely stupid. You possess all the disadvantages of a school-girl, without any of the attractions of youth.”
“I’m not very old,” said Rosalie. “I’m only twenty-three.”
“There you are again. You can keep nothing to yourself.”
“I only told you what my age was.”
“Well, I’ve none of the curiosity of a census paper, and women who tell their ages are a pest.”
“But why?”
“Because it is either a boast or a lie. Both are objectionable. Keep your age to yourself. No one wants to know it, and if they do, let them find out or guess.”
“Is that what the clever women do?”
“I don’t know. If you become a clever woman at second hand, you will become an abomination.”
“What must I do then?”
“Remain stupid.”
“Then I’ll never get away.”
“Oh, no; as soon as I pointed the way I blocked it. Had you discovered it yourself, it might have been unguarded.”
“I don’t believe you would have let me through, even if I had found it out.”
“Of course not. One never believes that which touches one’s vanity.”
Rosalie sighed. What a contrary mood had suddenly seized him! She got up, with little of life or spirit in her movements.
“Then if you find me so very dull I won’t come again. Three years seem a long time, but I have no doubt God will help me to live through them.”
He laughed.
“God, being dumb, refuses no one, least of all religious women, they force themselves upon Him so persistently. Yes, I shall be glad to be relieved of your company for a while. And so please confine your wanderings to the upper storey where you live. And leave the garden to those who can appreciate its beauty sufficiently to be in by five o’clock.”
Rosalie looked at him. Pain and fear was on her face.
“Live upstairs!”
“Yes; live upstairs. And eat red lozenges when your appetite is bad. You can’t die, you know.”
She turned toward the door.
“Good-night!” he said, drawing an open book toward him on the table, and sitting down.
“Good-night! I see now my fault and punishment in staying out of doors beyond the time.”
For only answer he laughed. As he did so the door closed.