Part 20

"There's no news," she said. "The faithful Mrs. Keene gave me a good deal of worry, poor, little soul, and Malcolm Fraser has not been a very entertaining companion. He's by way of not liking me."

Franklin laughed. "Why? He likes everybody."

"Because I don't like him, I suppose. I never get on very well with poets at any time. They always seem to belong to the cherub family,--cut off at the shoulders, I mean, and surrounded with Christmas card clouds."

Franklin laughed again. "You should see him whipping a trout stream or crawling after deer."

"Mrs. Keene's in the next room," said Mrs. Larpent, warningly. Would he take the hint and be a little less sun-parlorish?

"Is she? By Jove, yes. I mustn't make such a row. I wouldn't disturb her for anything."

No, he had missed it. She crossed one leg over the other. Rather more than a slim, white ankle showed. Well, the night was all in front of them. "It was a horrid trick, getting rid of us like that. I had just settled down on the _Galatea_ and was preparing to have the first really happy time of my life. You alone among men have it in your power to do that for me, Pelham." She felt that she was hurrying a little.

"Well, the _Galatea_ can be at your service again. Not yet though, I'm afraid. Malcolm and I have a plan in the back of our heads." He got up and heaved a sigh and walked about. Beatrix came back into his head at the mention of the _Galatea_. He could see her leaning against the starboard rail with the sun on her golden head and her chin held high. He would always be able to see that picture, thank God!

"Tell me about it," said Mrs. Larpent, hoping that, after all, she had not hurried too fast and that it was not her remark that made him restless. Any other man almost would have caught her meaning.

"Not yet," he said. "It isn't sufficiently formed." And then he lit a cigarette and sat down again, with a chuckle. "I can't fancy _you_ in this one-eyed hole. I thought, of course, that you'd stay the night here and then take the first possible train to New York."

"Did you think what would happen to me after that?"

"No, I confess I didn't. Southampton, or some such place. Society on the beach. You said something about Southampton, in the summer when you had mercy on me that time and we did the theatres. You were awfully good to me then."

She tried a daring move. "You paid me well, didn't you?"

Franklin looked as uncomfortable as he felt. He went off at a quick tangent. "I don't think I shall be in New York next fall," he said. "I may go back to South Africa."

Was he really quite so dense? she asked herself. Had he forgotten every single word of that odd talk in the Vanderdykes' library? Would she have to square up to him and blurt out the truth? What was he made of?

She would have one more try. She got up. "I must go now," she said. "It's getting late."

He got up too and opened his door. "Thanks for looking me up," he said. "It was very friendly of you."

She gave him one long, analytical look. No, she and her beauty meant nothing to him. He was not teasing her into a few uncontrolled hysterical words: He was simply a big, naive, unsuspicious man who thought nothing but good of her. She deserved better than this. She had never had any luck. And she loved this man.

She said "Good night" lightly and passed him with a fleeting smile. But in her own room she flung herself face down on her bed and cried badly.

Franklin hurled off his dressing gown and switched off the light. But in front of his eyes as he lay in the dark he could see Beatrix ankle-deep in a blue sea, with the sun on her red bathing cap, clad in tights, like a boy.

On her way out of Mrs. Keene's room Beatrix saw Ida Larpent leave Franklin's. Someone seemed to have thrown a stone at her heart.

*XXXVIII*

Ida Larpent did not appear at the breakfast table.

Not for many years had she permitted herself to enjoy the luxury of tears. It was true that, since she had been flung on her own resources and faced with the disagreeable necessity of fighting her own battles, there had been many hours when tears would have helped her and made her more human. She had refused herself the indulgence for two reasons. She had no sympathy with what she called weakness and she shuddered at the idea of spoiling her appearance, even temporarily, by swollen lids. Her beauty was her only asset, her only stock-in-trade, and she preserved it with the eager and consistent care of a leading actress. But Nature had been too strong for her and she had capitulated like an ordinary woman for once. She had given herself up to an orgy of disappointment, wounded vanity, anger and bitterness, and after the storm was over had spent the rest of the night trying to see into the future, balancing her account with Fate. She was not in immediate need of money. Franklin's generosity had put her on her feet for the time being. She had paid her pressing bills and could face the remainder of the year without anxiety. But there were other years. What of them? Her small capital saved from the wreck that she had made of the fond and foolish Clive's affairs had gone. It was certain that she had miscalculated the sort of man that Franklin was. Not having been able to "get him" under what, with most men, would have been the most favorable circumstances, she saw so little chance of binding him to her and claiming some sort of protection that she came to the conclusion that she must give him up. She had played Venus to his Adonis and failed. It was not pride that made her retire from the game but the flat knowledge that he could do without her. Once more then she must go back into the Street of Adventure and lay her snares for a rich man, young or old. One satisfaction was here, and this was inconsistent with her materialism. It was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Beatrix _did_ appear at the breakfast table.

She too, had had a bad night. The shock of seeing Ida Larpent coming out of Franklin's room was awful. She sat for an hour chilled to the bone. After having loved no one but herself, and grown accustomed to the habit of merely touching a bell to procure the earth, it was startling enough suddenly to wake and find that the earth meant nothing to her without the man who did not seem to need her. In itself that was so much a shock that her whole perspective was shattered and out of focus. And even if Franklin only liked her as a sister, which gave her sufficient suffering, she loved him and had surrounded him with a girlish halo of idealism which of all things did not admit the possibility of such a visit as she had witnessed.

No one would have imagined who saw her and heard her laugh that morning that she had sat in the dark for many hours with life lying all smashed about her like a beautiful stained glass window through which a shell had burst. She joined Franklin and Malcolm at breakfast with her chin higher than ever, readier than usual with banter and mischief, the embodiment of youth, health and careless joy. Her pride came to her rescue and she intended to live up to Franklin's estimate of her courage to her last gasp. The difference between Ida Larpent and Beatrix was breeding.

She found the two men on the veranda outside the dining-room,--Franklin smoking his inevitable pipe.

"Good morning," she said. Her ringing voice turned them both around. "Malcolm, if you don't write a long and terrible poem on the early morning noises of the country, I shall. Even New York with the explosions in the subway and the rattle of motor buses is a city of the dead compared with this place. Cocks began to scream at each other before daybreak, hens have been brawling for hours and the gobble of turkeys under my window has been worse than an election meeting. Is Mrs. Larpent down yet?"

"We've not seen her," said Franklin.

"I'm ten minutes late, am I not?"

"About that, but it doesn't matter," said Malcolm.

"I know it doesn't, but ten minutes' grace is enough even for a woman, so let's go in and eat." And she led the way into the bleak dining-room, as glad as a school-girl at the chance of being able to get a little bit back, a very little bit, from Ida Larpent.

The waiters were almost ludicrously obsequious and rolled their eyes towards Franklin with the nervousness of pet monkeys.

"How's Mrs. Keene?" Both men asked the question together.

"Up and about," said Beatrix. "A little weak, of course, but otherwise well. Her trouble was wholly mental. Left alone with Pelham on a yacht, she was convinced that, in order to preserve my honor, as she puts it, I should have to jump overboard. Poor, dear, little affectionate Brownie. If only she had taken the trouble to find out the sort of a man Pelham is she wouldn't have turned a hair."

Malcolm laughed. "Is that meant to be complimentary or reproachful?"

She saw that Franklin was watching her keenly. "Both," she said, with a little bow, and sailed on before he could butt in. "I gave her a faithful account of everything that happened and she is beginning to believe, very reluctantly, that her favorite women novelists don't know anything about men. And now what we both want to know is this. Where are we going, how are we going and how soon are we going, or are we all going to spend the remainder of our lives in this rural retreat to make a study of frogs, farmyards and fogginess?"

Franklin was silent for a moment. This was the old Beatrix. This was the Beatrix of New York, the careless, superficial, sarcastic Beatrix of the house party at the Vanderdykes' palace. What a fool he had been to imagine that he was the man appointed to enable Miss Honoria to give thanks to God! "The _Galatea_ will anchor off this place this afternoon," he said. "Malcolm and I will see you and your staff off to New York on the night train."

"And where do you intend to go?"

"To Europe," he said.

"Is that definitely arranged?"

"Quite. Malcolm and I settled it just now. He will spend a year or so pottering about London, Paris and Rome and I shall go back to Africa."

With a mighty effort Beatrix held herself under absolute control. "But what about the party at Sherry's during Christmas week?"

"Scratched," said Franklin, shortly.

"I see. Well, now we know, don't we? And that's something. How long, exactly, do you propose that I shall remain a grass widow?"

"That," said Franklin, "is entirely up to you."

A bell-boy came in, rumbled grinning up to Beatrix and handed her a telegram. She took it. "Will you allow me?" she asked, and tore it open. A curious smile played round her lips as she read it over several times. "No," she said, "it isn't entirely up to me," and gave it to Franklin.

And what he read was this. "Ask Pelham to bring you home as soon as possible. No one is ill but we are all greatly perturbed by amazing rumors and daily anonymous letters. A consultation is necessary. Much love. Honoria Vanderdyke."

"H'm," said Franklin. "Sutherland York at work. May I show this to Malcolm?"

"Of course," said Beatrix.

Malcolm's remark, gravely spoken, was "Scandal again."

"Yes, we are back again at the beginning," said Franklin.

Beatrix pushed back her chair and got up and went out. As she stood on the veranda with the sun on her golden head there was not anxiety in her eyes, but triumph. If she really knew Franklin he would not desert her at this new crisis. He would not go to Europe and to South Africa. He would not consider only himself.

He came out almost at once and gave her the telegram. "You may want to keep this," he said, and stood in front of her for orders.

"Thanks,--yes."

They looked eagerly at each other, hoping against hope that there was something in all this, something more than mere accident, something which it was not for them to pry into or understand, that was to bring them as close as only love can bring a man and a woman.

"Well?"

And Franklin echoed her. "Well?"

They mutually wished to God that they were different, of better stuff and more worth while.

"It's for you to speak," she said.

"You were right about the feeling that something was going to happen to-day."

She nodded and put the telegram in her pocket. It didn't seem to matter much what the outcome of it was going to be.

"We must all go back on the _Galatea_ to-night," he went on.

"You will alter your plans for me? You will stand by me again?"

He gave a queer sort of laugh. "You didn't call me a sportsman for nothing," he said.

*XXXIX*

New York again,--tired, hot, irritable New York. A New York in the summer, careless of her appearance like an overworked woman with a too large family and, in consequence, a trifle blowsy, with stringy hair and a rather dirty skirt.

Four cars drove away from the river which lay glistening beneath an afternoon sun.

"Well," said Beatrix, sitting back, "all we need to make the procession really noticeable is a mounted policeman, a band and a banner."

Franklin laughed and looked over his shoulder. Following them came Mrs. Lester Keene alone in all her glory with the smaller cases. Behind her, apparently not on speaking terms, Helene and the valet with a collection of hat and shoe boxes. Finally an open touring car piled high with luggage.

"What tune would you suggest for the band?"

"There'd be a nice touch of irony in 'See the Conquering Hero Comes,'" she said. "Don't you think so?"

"Quite nice." He congratulated himself upon becoming an excellent actor.

"And now tell me a few things. What about the _Galatea_?"

"Oh, she'll remain in commission," said Franklin. "McLeod is going home for a few days and the first officer will be in charge. Malcolm will stay aboard too. I shall let him know what happens."

"Why didn't you bring him with us?"

"Don't you think he might have been in the way?"

"And where's Mrs. Larpent going?"

"Home first and then to Southampton, I believe."

"I forgot to say good-bye to her in the hurry of getting away from the yacht," said Beatrix, hoping never to see her again.

"I thought you would," said Franklin, a little dryly. His mind went back to the strained and uncomfortable return trip during which Beatrix and Ida Larpent had instinctively avoided each other as much as possible. He couldn't for the life of him make out why.

"She's very beautiful," said Beatrix, as though she were talking about a view or a horse.

"Yes, but better than that," said Franklin. "She's a good sort."

And Beatrix changed the conversation abruptly. "Dear little Brownie! It was very thoughtful of her to insist on riding alone."

"Probably imagined that you and I had plenty to talk about."

"Have we?"

"I suppose so, but I don't know where to begin."

And after that there was silence, for which both of them were glad. This was the first time since leaving the one-eyed place with its frogs and chickens that they had been alone. During the return trip on the _Galatea_ they had both tacitly agreed that no purpose could be served by being together more than was necessary. Beatrix had kept Malcolm at her side consistently. She confided nothing, spoke little and pretended to read one of Jones's novels, keeping her false brilliance for lunch and dinner. Malcolm, glad to believe that for some unfathomable reason his companionship was necessary, stretched himself out in a deck chair and wrote masses of _vers libre_. When inspiration failed he surreptitiously watched Beatrix and wondered why her eyes were nearly always on the horizon with a wistfulness that worried him. Once or twice it flashed across his mind that she loved his friend and was hiding the fact because of pride, and the excitement of the thought drove every other idea out of his head. But when he saw that her manner to Franklin was cheery and devil-may-care and boyish,--that word seemed right to him,--he dismissed it. "No such luck," he said to himself and went on being quiet when he sensed that she wished for quietude and broke into voluble conversation when it seemed to him that she silently asked him to chatter.

He was a lazy fellow, was Malcolm Fraser, a happy-go-lucky procrastinating young-old man, was this very dear chap, to whom the mere passing of time counted for little so that it passed pleasantly and who seemed to be content to absorb the color of life and revel in the pageantry of Nature. But he had been born a poet and one fine day, when he took himself seriously, ceased to be impressionistic and settled down to work, his God-sent sympathy, the milk of human kindness, of which he was full, and the exquisite imagery that he had been collecting as a bee gathers honey, would put him among the few men whose verse fills a hard world with music and gives back to wounded souls that gift of faith without which life is a hollow and a useless episode.

All the way back Mrs. Larpent had kept to her own room, giving out that she was unwell,--as indeed she was. Her mind was sick, and her body disappointed. Franklin had told her the truth, she was obliged to own, when he said that he loved Beatrix. There was no accounting for tastes and it seemed to her that a man might infinitely better give his heart like a toy to a toy-surfeited child than to this young autocrat.

And so Franklin had found companionship with Captain McLeod, the first officer, and--it was enough to make a cat laugh--with Mrs. Lester Keene. He spent hours trying to make the time pass a little pleasantly for the elderly woman who was, he knew, anxious, frightened and full of conscientious but wholly unnecessary self-reproach. They became good friends before the yacht dropped her anchor off her usual moorings,--even they. One of Mrs. Keene's resolutions was that, in future, she would revise her novel-made opinion of men. That was something to have achieved, had Franklin only known it.

Through the mostly ugly, but sometimes queerly beautiful and always unique city they went together, Franklin and Beatrix followed by their entourage, and it came to them both that, in returning to the house in which they had joined forces in a manner that now appeared to them to be inconceivable, they were completing a curious and a useless circle. They had undergone strange feelings, placed themselves into difficult and dangerous situations, disconnected themselves from the irresponsibility, the right to which was theirs by inheritance, given up an individualism that was part and parcel of their training and environment, and all for what? To return discontented, disappointed and dispirited to the spot from which they had set out. He loved her and would lay his life at her feet and she loved him and would gladly be his servant, and both, being alike and having the same want of confidence when it came to the fundamentals, had not found it out. Fate had played a pretty game with these two for having dared to tamper with her. And, oddly enough, Ida Larpent was the only one of the characters in this little comedy from which she had made her exit who had guessed what Fate had done and now peeked through the cracks in the scenery to see how it was going to end. And she, being a worldling, suspicious of humanity, was not prepared to make a guess.

"Well," said Beatrix at last, gathering herself together. "We're almost there. In for a very amusing evening, if I know my respected and respectable family."

Franklin turned and looked at her. There was something in her voice,--a sort of school-girl note, the note of a high spirited young thing who had broken bounds and been discovered and faced punishment,--that made him shoot out a laugh.

"Why laugh?" she asked. She never tolerated being laughed at.

"You'd make a rattlesnake chortle." He laughed again.

"Look out, or I _may_ hit you," she said. "It's one of the things that makes my arm utterly irresponsible."

He made a gesture that was almost French. "You beat me," he said. "By Jove, you beat me."

"If you'd beaten me it might have been different," she snapped back at him.

"One doesn't beat you," said Franklin. "God made you and that's the end of it, I find. No argument, as a man I know always says when the rain has set in for the day or a bottle's empty. You are you, kiddie, and so are the sun, the moon and the stars."

"You're a fool," she cried, "a fool, a fool!" And then she put her hand quickly over her mouth. What kind of a fool would _she_ look if she allowed herself to fling out even the beginning of what was in her mind?

"I knew that five minutes after I grinned like a Cheshire cheese and posed before your people as the sheepish husband. All the same it was worth it, here and there." He was damned if he'd give himself away either.

"I think so too," she said.

The car turned and went through the great iron gates.

"I shall like the _Galatea_ all the better because you've touched her," he said.

She laughed because her lips insisted on trembling. "I suppose you asked Malcolm to give you that. Don't you think one poet in the family's enough? There's mother's machine-made hair and Aunt Honoria's perfect nose and dear old daddy's kind but suspicious eyes. 'It's all right in the wintertime but in the summertime it's awful.'" She sang these pathetic words beneath her breath and waved her hand to the waiting family with an air of superb confidence and affection.

He didn't laugh again. Metaphorically he took off all his hats to her and laid them at her feet.

*XL*

The perfect Mrs. Vanderdyke, fresh from the manipulations of her constant time-fighters, arranged herself on the top step of the house. With a light, controlling touch she placed her husband on her right and her sister-in-law on her left, so that, viewed from below, they should be exactly framed in the elaborate doorway. She did this, as she did everything, with a self-conscious sense of the decorative, of being like royalty, in the public eye, of standing before an imaginary battery of masked cameras as the chief representative of American high society.

It was a good picture, she knew, and one of which her country might well feel proud. She was quite satisfied with her own appearance. Her head, which had taken an hour to dress, was a work of art. She wore no hat. After some consideration she had come to the conclusion that a hat would spoil the intimate, home-like effect that she desired to achieve. Her face, strangely un-lined and immobile, had the faintest touch of color. Her chin, held high in order that there should not be the mere suggestion of sag, certainly gave her the appearance of gargling, but what did that matter? Her dress, which had almost broken a woman's heart, gave her youth. Of her sister-in-law she felt proud. She added the right note of dignity and autumnal beauty, with her white hair and eagle nose and unconscious grace. She wished that her husband had taken more pains with his clothes and had put up a better fight with elderliness but, after all, he was Vanderdyke and a man.

She was pleased with the way in which Franklin helped Beatrix out of the car and, going down two steps, she welcomed the daughter of whom she knew absolutely nothing as though she were a rather interesting and important relation. "How well you look, dear Beatrix," she said, in a voice which gave the impression of having been as well massaged as her face. She placed a light kiss on the girl's cheek. "But I've never seen you so sunburned before," she added reproachfully.

"The simple life, Mother," said Beatrix, knowing that her satire was wasted. She put her arms round her father's neck. "How are you, Daddy darling? Glad to see me?"