Part 13

John found his cottage bedroom, with its view of the river, delightful, and at luncheon Lady Hilda showed him the side of herself that he liked best. She talked of her travels, and of big-game shooting. Afterward they sauntered out to the stream, and John, selecting the more stable of the two boats moored to the little landing-stage, pulled out into the river. Lady Hilda, in a fur coat, leaned back on a pile of cushions and watched him, with a cigarette between her lips. He found the exercise stimulating and delightful. Some of the color which he had lost came back to his cheeks.

"Aren't you sorry," she asked him once, as they paused to look across a vista of green meadows toward a distant range of hills, "for the people who see nothing in the country except in summer? Look at those lines of bare, sad trees, the stillness of it all, and yet the softness; and think what it will soon be, think what there is underneath, ready to burst into life as the weeks go on! I always come down here early, just to watch the coming of springtime. That wood to our left, with its bare, brown undergrowth, will soon show little flushes of pinky-yellow, and then a few days more sunshine and the primroses will be there. And you see, higher up, that wood where the trees stand so far apart? A little later still, the wild hyacinths will be like a blue carpet there. In the garden we begin with little rings of white snowdrops; then the crocuses come up in lines, yellow and purple; and the daffodils; and then, on those beds behind, the hyacinths. When the wind blows from the south, the perfume of them, as you pass down the river, is simply wonderful. Be careful, if you are turning round. There's a strong current here."

John nodded. He was watching his hostess a little curiously.

"I had no idea," he said simply, "that you cared about flowers and that sort of thing."

She threw her cigarette away and looked at him for a moment without speaking.

"You see, you don't really understand me very well," she remarked.

The twilight was coming on as they turned into their own little stream, and gleams of light shot from the windows of the few houses that were open. As they strolled up the lawn, they could see a rose-shaded lamp and a silver tea-equipage set out in Lady Hilda's sitting room.

"No one arrived yet, I see," she remarked carelessly, as they entered the cottage. "I'll play you a game of billiards as soon as we have had tea."

John, who had thoroughly enjoyed his exercise, sat in a low chair by her side, drank innumerable small cups of tea, and ate buttered toast in thin strips. When they had finished, Lady Hilda rose.

"Go and knock the balls about for a few minutes," she begged. "I am going to put on a more comfortable gown. If the Daunceys come, you can entertain them. I played a round of golf this morning before you came."

John made his way into the comfortable billiard room, at one end of which a wood fire was burning, lit a cigarette, and took out a cue. Presently Lady Hilda returned. She was wearing a rose-colored tea-gown, and once more John caught a glimpse of something in her eyes, as she looked at him, which puzzled him.

"I am a little gaudy, I am afraid," she laughed, as she took a cue from the rack, "but so comfortable! How many will you give me in a hundred?"

"I have never seen you play," John reminded her. "I am not much good myself."

They played two games, and John had hard work to escape defeat. As they were commencing the third, the butler entered the room, bearing a telegram. Lady Hilda took it from the salver, glanced at it, and threw it into the fire.

"What a nuisance!" she exclaimed. "The Daunceys can't come."

John, who was enjoying himself very much, murmured only a word or two of polite regret. He had never got over his distaste for meeting strangers.

"Can't be helped, I suppose," Lady Hilda remarked. "There is nothing from Flo Henderson yet. We'll have one more game, and then I'll ring her up."

They played another game of billiards, and sat by the fire for a little while. The silence outside, and the air of repose about the place, were delightful to John after several months of London.

"I wonder you ever leave here," he said.

She laughed softly.

"You forget that I am a lone woman. Solitude, as our dear friend wrote in her last novel, is a paradise for two, but is an irritant for one."

There was a short silence. For the first time since his arrival John's tranquillity was a little disturbed. There was something almost pathetic in the expression which had flashed for a moment over his hostess's face. Was she really lonely, he wondered? Perhaps she had some sort of unhappy love history underneath her rather hard exterior. He was disposed just then to judge the whole world charitably, and he had never believed the stories which people were so anxious to tell of her. He felt no desire to pursue the subject.

"I have never read any of Mrs. Henderson's books," he remarked.

She stretched out an arm, took a volume from the swinging table by her side, and threw it across to him.

"You can glance through that while you dress," she said.

A gong rang through the house a few moments later, and the butler brought in two cocktails on a little silver tray.

"We are having quite a solitude _a deux_, aren't we?" Lady Hilda remarked, as she raised her glass. "I'll go and ring up Flo on my way up-stairs."

They parted a few minutes later, and John went up to his room. He found his clothes carefully laid out, a bright fire burning, and a bath-room leading from his bedroom. He dressed in somewhat leisurely fashion, and the dinner-gong rang as he descended the stairs. He could hear Lady Hilda's voice talking on the telephone, and made his way to her little room. She had just laid down the receiver.

"It seems," she said, "that you and I are the only people who appreciate the country at this time of the year. I have just been talking to Flo. She declares that nothing in the world would tempt her down here. She is convinced that all the trees are dropping with damp, and that the mud is inches deep. She won't believe a single word about the sunshine."

"She isn't coming, then?"

Lady Hilda shook her head.

"Fred is our last hope as a chaperon," she remarked carelessly, as she took his arm. "I expect he'll turn up later."

Dinner--which, as John observed when they entered the room, was laid only for two--was served at a small, round table drawn pleasantly up to the fire. John, who had never admired his hostess more, put all disquieting thoughts behind him and thoroughly enjoyed the dainty meal. The pleasant warmth of the room, the excellent champagne, and Lady Hilda's amusing conversation, unlocked his tongue. He talked much more freely than usual of his life in Cumberland, of the various half-formed plans which he had made as to the spending of his unexpected fortune, of the new pleasure he found in motoring, of his almost pathetic efforts to understand and appreciate the town life which at heart he hated. A clever listener, like most good talkers, Lady Hilda frequently encouraged him with a sympathetic word or two.

They were sitting over their coffee and liqueurs in two great easy chairs drawn up to the fire, when John glanced at the clock with a little start.

"Why, it's nearly ten o'clock!" he exclaimed. "What on earth can have become of your brother?"

Almost as he spoke the telephone-bell rang. It stood on a little table behind him. Lady Hilda, who was leaning back in her chair in an attitude of luxurious repose, pointed lazily to it.

"Answer it for me, there's a dear man," she begged.

John took up the receiver. He recognized the voice at once--it was Lady Hilda's brother who spoke.

"I say, is Lady Hilda there?" he asked.

"Yes, where are you?" John replied. "I am John Strangewey. We have been expecting you all the evening."

"Expecting me?" was the reply. "What on earth are you talking about? And what are you doing in the wilderness?"

"I am spending the week-end with your sister," John replied. "I understood that you were coming."

The young man at the other end laughed derisively.

"Something better to do, old chap!" he said. "I am dining with Flo Henderson--just speaking from her flat. Send Hilda along, there's a good fellow."

John turned around. His eyes met Lady Hilda's, and he understood. He handed the receiver to her in silence. Of the conversation which passed he scarcely heard a word. As soon as it began, in fact, he left the room and went across the hall to the billiard room. The lights were already lit, and cues, ready chalked, were standing by the table.

John went through a few moments of dismayed wonder. He glanced out of the window toward the garage, which was all in darkness. He heard the soft sweep of Lady Hilda's skirts across the hall, the closing of the door as she entered. Her eyes met his, as he turned around, with something of challenge in them. Her lips were curved in a faintly ironical smile.

"Well?" she exclaimed, a little defiantly. "Shall I telephone to London for a chaperon?"

"Not unless you think it necessary," John replied, suddenly feeling the fire of battle in his blood. "I can assure you that I am to be trusted. On the other hand, if you prefer it, I can motor back to town; or I can go to the inn, and come and take you on the river in the morning."

It was obvious that she was a little surprised. She came over to him, put her hands upon the billiard table, and looked up into his face.

"Don't be a goose," she begged, "and please don't imagine foolish things. I suppose my telegram to Fred must have gone wrong. Anyhow, I don't think we need anybody else. We've got along very well so far to-day, haven't we?"

"I've enjoyed every moment of it," John declared cheerfully, "and I am looking forward more than I can tell you to beating you at billiards, to sleeping once more with my windows wide open and no smuts, and to having another pull on that river in the morning. Let me give you fifteen this time. I want to play my best!"

She took up her cue with a little sigh of half-puzzled relief. They played two games, the second one at John's insistence. Then the butler brought in whisky and soda.

"Is there anything further to-night, madam?" he asked, after he had arranged the tray.

"Nothing," Lady Hilda answered. "You can go to bed."

They played the last game almost in silence. Then Lady Hilda replaced her cue in the rack and threw herself into one of the easy chairs.

"Bring me a whisky-and-soda," she said. "We'll have one cigarette before we go to bed."

John obeyed her, and sat by her side. She looked at him a little questioningly. His unhesitating acceptance of the situation had puzzled her. There was nothing but the slightest change in his manner to denote his realization of the fact that the house-party was a sham.

"I believe you are cross," she exclaimed suddenly.

"On the contrary," John replied, "I have had a thoroughly delightful day."

"You don't like people who tell fibs," she went on. "You know quite well, now, that my house-party was a farce. I never asked the Daunceys, I never sent a telegram to Fred. It was simply rotten luck that he rang me up. I asked you down here to spend the week-end with me--alone."

He looked her in the face, without the slightest change of expression.

"Then I think that it was exceedingly nice of you," he said, "and I appreciate the compliment. Really," he went on, with a smile, "I think we are quite safe, aren't we? You are known as a man-hater, and you are allowed special privileges because you are what you are. And I am known to be in love with another woman."

She frowned slightly.

"Does the whole world, then, know of your infatuation?" she asked.

"It may know, for all I care," John replied simply. "I am hoping that after Monday Louise will let me announce it."

There was a short silence. A portion of the log fell to the hearth, and John carefully replaced it upon the fire.

"Do you remember," she asked, dropping her voice almost to a whisper, "what I said to you the first night we met at Covent Garden, before I had any particular interest in you, before I had come to like you?"

John made no reply. Why did she again remind him of what she had said that night?

"I advised you," she went on, "not to be too rash. I think I told you that there were better things."

"There is no better thing in the world," John said simply, "than to give every feeling of which you are capable to the woman you love."

She frowned and threw her cigarette into the hearth.

"You talk," she declared, "either like George Alexander on the stage, or like a country bumpkin! Why doesn't some one teach you the manners of civilized life?"

"Lady Hilda," he replied, "I am past teaching. You see, the fact of it is that a country bumpkin is exactly what I am."

She turned her white shoulder away from him.

"You will find a candle on the hall table," she snapped.

John rose at once to his feet.

"It's your delightful country air, I suppose," he said. "I am sorry if I betrayed my sleepiness, however. Good night!"

Lady Hilda made no answer. John looked backward from the door. She had kicked off her slipper and was warming her foot before the fire.

"Good night!" he repeated. "I am going to wake like a giant in the morning, and pull you just as far as you like up the river!"

He closed the door, lit a candle, and made his way to his room. As soon as he was there he locked the door and flung the window wide open. Resting his elbows upon the window-sill, he looked out at the soft, misty darkness. He had the sensation of having been through some undignified fight, in which even victory savored of shame. He felt a quivering consciousness, half indignant, half irritated, of having been forced into an impossible situation.

Presently he began to undress. He moved about on tiptoe, and found himself continually listening. He heard Lady Hilda come out from the billiard room below, heard her strike a match as she lit a candle, heard her coming up the stairs. He stood quite still. Suddenly he saw the handle of his door turned softly--once, and then again. He watched it with fascinated, almost horrified eyes. The door was shaken slightly. A voice from outside called him.

"Good night!"

He made no reply. The handle ceased to rattle. He heard retreating footsteps, the opening and closing of Lady Hilda's door.

XXII

John was awakened the next morning by the sound of rain against his window. He got out of bed and looked upon a scene of desolation. The clouds hung low, and rain was coming down in level sheets. The lawns and gardens which yesterday had had the air of waiting for the spring were to-day a sudden wilderness.

There was a knock at the door, and the butler brought in his tea.

"Lady Hilda sends her compliments, sir," he announced, "and as the morning is so unfavorable she will not rise until eleven o'clock. Breakfast will be ready down-stairs at half past nine, or can be served in your room."

"Thank you, I'll come down," John replied.

He bathed and shaved himself, he even packed his own clothes. Then he left the room, descending the stairs softly, and glancing furtively at the door of Lady Hilda's room with an air almost of a guilty schoolboy. He breakfasted alone and spent the morning in the billiard room until Lady Hilda appeared.

"I am a terrible hostess, am I not?" she said apologetically, as she opened the door; "but what is there to be done? The weather is too hopeless, isn't it?"

"Appalling!" John agreed. "Still, it's very comfortable in here, and I have just made a seventy-one break."

"We'll have a two hundred and fifty up--that ought to last until lunch-time," she suggested, throwing herself into a chair. "Give me ten minutes, will you? This weather is so depressing. Even the effort of getting up seems to have tired me."

She threw herself into an easy chair, and John tried to concentrate his attention upon the balls. More than once, however, he glanced across at his hostess. She was looking older this morning, paler, her face a little drawn, her eyes large and soft. She sat looking into the fire; on her knee were some letters, at which she scarcely glanced. Presently she threw them aside and rang the bell.

"Bring me a brandy-and-soda and the cigarettes," she told the butler. "Now, Mr. Strangewey, I am ready," she went on, turning to John. "Give me fifty in two hundred and fifty, if you dare!"

"We'll try," he agreed.

They played until lunch-time, both affecting a rapt interest in the game. At the sound of the gong Lady Hilda laid down her cue.

"We'll finish later," she suggested.

John strolled to the window. There were some signs of clearing in the sky, although the whole place seemed still to reek of moisture.

"I am afraid I shall have to start soon after lunch," he said. "It will take some time to get up to town. I am not a very experienced driver, and my car is a little inclined to skid on wet roads."

She made no remark, and to both of them the presence of servants during the meal appeared to be somewhat of a relief. The coffee and liqueurs, however, again were served in the billiard room, and there was a very awkward silence. For some time Lady Hilda had baffled his efforts at ordinary conversation, and his last few remarks about the weather she had ignored altogether.

"So you are going up this evening?" she said at last.

"This afternoon, if you don't mind," he replied, glancing at the clock, and thinking of the bliss with which he would turn his car out into the road. "I explained, didn't I, that I had an engagement this evening?"

"Quite right," she admitted. "All the same, you are rather an inconsiderate guest, aren't you, to leave me here alone in this swamp?"

"Come, too?" he suggested. "I'll motor you up."

"Thanks," she replied, "I will."

He was a little taken aback, but, after all, it was perhaps the simplest way out of his difficulties.

"I'll take you, with pleasure, if you don't mind being drenched."

"I can stand physical discomforts," she said. "It's the other sort of knocks that bruise."

"It won't be so bad," he continued, ignoring her last speech, "if you wear a mackintosh and something thick for your head. Shouldn't wonder if it cleared up presently."

Lady Hilda smiled.

"I have been out in a shower in Patagonia," she reminded him, "which lasted for three weeks. Will it suit you to start in half an hour?"

"Any time you like," he agreed.

She had changed her position a little, and he was forced to look at her.

"Mr. Strangewey," she said, "I want to ask you a question. Are you going to marry Louise Maurel?"

"I am," he replied, without hesitation; "at least, I hope to do so."

She looked at him for a moment with a strange expression. Then she rose to her feet. Her lips were quivering. She leaned against the mantelpiece, with her forehead upon her arms. At first he imagined that she was going to weep; then, to his horror, he found that she was laughing--half-hysterically, perhaps, but still laughing. He drew a step nearer to her, but she waved him away.

"Sit down!" she gasped. "Oh, if I might tell this to Henri Graillot! What a play! What humor! My friend John Strangewey, I congratulate you! You have created a new situation in life. Leave me alone, please!"

She bent forward until her face was completely hidden. Her body was shaken. Once or twice he fancied that her laughter had turned to sobs. When at last she looked up, however, there were the remains of an almost devilish mirth on her lips. She rang the bell.

"That is for my maid," she said. "I am now going to change my clothes and let you motor me up to London. I shall get some fresh air, at any rate, and your car always fills me with longing. Amuse yourself, won't you? I shall be an hour getting ready, and I will order an early tea."

"You wouldn't care to tell me, I suppose," he asked, "what is the new situation in life which you say I have created?"

She turned to him from the door. She was really a very handsome woman. Her lips were most expressive.

"My friend," she said, "if you knew, if you understood, the priceless humor of it would be gone."

She closed the door and left John alone. He went back to the billiard-table, but somehow or other his skill seemed to have vanished. He had the picture of her face in his mind, the subtle meaning of her lips, the mockery of her eyes.

They drove up to London almost in silence. It was nearly seven o'clock when John swung the little car in Pont Street. It was still raining softly.

"Thank you very much," he said, "for my week-end. I enjoyed the river immensely yesterday afternoon."

"And thank you very much for everything, Mr. John Strangewey," she returned. "You have given me what we are all sighing for, a new sensation--not exactly what I expected, perhaps, but something new."

"I know you think I am a country yokel and a fool," John said; "but I wish you'd tell me why you laughed at me in that mysterious fashion."

She shook her head.

"It would spoil it," she replied. "Besides, it isn't for me to tell you. I am the last person who should."

They drew up outside her little house, from which came no sign of light.

"Will you dine with me to-night?" he asked suddenly.

She turned toward him quickly--and understood.

"Very nice of you," she replied lightly. "I shall go round to my club. You don't agree with me, somehow. When I look at you or think of you, I feel inclined either to laugh or cry, and I hate emotions. Don't get out, please. You see, they are opening the door already."

She slipped away and disappeared into her house. John drove slowly back toward the Milan. Just as he was turning in, a little waterproofed figure from the pavement waved her hand and called to him. He drew up and she hastened to his side.

"What are you doing here?" Sophy asked. "I thought you were spending the week-end up the river."

"I stayed there last night," he answered. "To-day--well, look at the weather! I have just motored Lady Hilda up."

"And what are you going to do now?" she inquired eagerly.

"Give you some dinner," he replied promptly.

"Hurrah!" she answered. "I have been so bored and miserable that I went and walked over Waterloo Bridge in a mackintosh, just to get a little air. I'll be round in an hour. Will that do?"

"Any time you like," he agreed; "the sooner the better. I was almost wishing, a few minutes ago," he went on, "that I could find the courage to storm you in your little room. Louise is away, and I'm hating myself."

"So I am to come and amuse my lord!" she laughed. "Well, I'll come," she went on quickly. "We'll sit and you shall imagine that I am Louise, and make love to her. Will that make you happy?"

John leaned out of the car.

"Sophy," he whispered, as he slipped in his clutch, "just now I do not feel like making love to any woman on earth!"

"Fed up with us, eh?"

He nodded.

"You're different, thank Heaven! Don't be late."

XXIII

"This is very nearly my idea of perfect happiness," Sophy murmured, as she leaned across the table and listened idly while John ordered the dinner. "Give me very little to eat, John, and talk a great deal to me. I am depressed about myself and worried about everything!"

"And I," he declared, "am just beginning to breathe again. I don't think I understand women, Sophy."

"Wasn't your week-end party a success?" she asked.

"Not altogether," he confessed; "but don't let's talk about it. Tell me what is depressing you."

"About myself, or things generally?"

"Yourself, first."

"Well, the most respectable young man you ever knew in your life, who lives in Bath, wants me to marry him. I don't think I could. I don't think I could live in Bath, and I don't think I could marry any one. And I've just thirteen shillings and fourpence left, I haven't paid my rent, and my dressmaker is calling for something on account on Monday morning."