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"I haven't the least chance of catching up with them. I may as well come back with you."
The curious expression – or rather eclipse of expression – was still in her eyes, a purely negative defensiveness that seemed as though it could spring only from an instinctive resolve to show nothing of her feelings. The eyes were a dark blue; but with Vivien's eyes colour never counted for much, nor their shape, nor what one would roughly call their beauty, were it more or less. Their meaning – that was what they set a man asking after.
"It really would be very kind of you," she said.
Andy mounted her on the suppositiously lame pony – her weight wouldn't hurt him much, anyhow – and they set out at a walk towards the highroad which led to Nutley and thence, half a mile farther on, to Meriton.
She was silent till they reached the road. Then she asked abruptly, "Are you ever afraid?"
"Well, you see," said Andy, with a laugh, "I never know whether I'm afraid or only excited – in fighting, I mean. Otherwise I don't fancy I'm either often."
"Well, you're big," she observed. "I'm afraid of pretty nearly everything – horses, dogs, motor-cars – and I'm passionately afraid of hunting."
"You're not big, you see," said Andy consolingly. Indeed her hand on the reins looked almost ridiculously small.
"I've got to learn not to be afraid of things. My father's teaching me. You know who I am, don't you?"
"Oh yes; why, I remember you years ago! Is that why you're out hunting?"
"Yes."
"And why you think that the pony – ?"
"Is lame enough to let me risk going home? Yes." There was a hint of defiance in her voice. "You must think what you like," she seemed to say.
Andy considered the matter in his impartial, solid, rather slowly moving mind. It was foolish to be frightened at such things; it must be wholesome to be taught not to be. Still, hunting wasn't exactly a moral duty, and the girl looked very fragile. He had not arrived at any final decision on the case – on the issue whether the girl were silly or the father cruel (the alternatives might not be true alternatives, not strictly exclusive of one another) – before she spoke again.
"And then I'm fastidious. Are you?"
"I hope not!" said Andy, with an amused chuckle. A great lump of a fellow like him fastidious!
"Father doesn't like that either, and I've got to get over it."
"How does it – er – take you?" Andy made bold to inquire.
"Oh, lots of ways. I hate dirt, and dust, and getting very hot, and going into butchers' shops, and – "
"Butchers' shops!" exclaimed Andy, rather hit on the raw. "You eat meat, don't you?"
"Things don't look half as dead when they're cooked. I couldn't touch a butcher!" Horror rang in her tones.
"Oh, but I say, Jack Rock's a butcher, and he's about the best fellow in Meriton. You know him?"
"I've seen him," she admitted reluctantly, the subject being evidently distasteful.
For the second time Andy Hayes was conscious of a duty: he must not be – or seem – ashamed of Jack Rock, just because this girl was fastidious.
"I'm related to him, you know. My stepmother was his sister. And I'm staying in his house."
She glanced at him, a slight flush rising to her cheeks; he saw that her lips trembled a little.
"It's no use trying to unsay things, is it?" she asked.
"Not a bit," laughed Andy. "Don't think I'm hurt; but I should be a low-down fellow if I didn't stand up for old Jack."
"I should rather like to have you to stand up for me sometimes," she said, and broke into a smile as she added, "You're so splendidly solid, you see, Mr. Hayes. Here we are at home – you may as well make a complete thing of it and see me as far as the stables."
"I'd like to come in – I'm not exactly a stranger here. I've often been a trespasser. Don't tell Mr. Wellgood unless you think he'll forgive me, but as a boy I used to come and bathe in the lake early in the morning – before anybody was up. I used to undress in the bushes and slip in for my swim pretty nearly every morning in the summer. It's fine bathing, but you want to be able to swim; there's a strong undercurrent, where the stream runs through. Are you fond of bathing?"
Andy was hardly surprised when she gave a little shudder. "No, I'm rather afraid of water." She added quickly, "Don't tell my father, or I expect I should have to try to learn to swim. He hasn't thought of that yet. No more has Isobel – Miss Vintry, my companion. You know? You saw her at the meeting. I have a companion now, instead of a governess. Isobel isn't afraid of anything, and she's here to teach me not to be."
"You don't mind my asking your father to let me come and swim, if I'm here in the summer?"
"I don't suppose I ought to mind that," she said doubtfully.
The house stood with its side turned to the drive by which they approached it from the Meriton road. Its long, low, irregular front – it was a jumble of styles and periods – faced the lake, a stone terrace running between the façade and the water; it was backed by a thick wood; across the lake the bushes grew close down to the water's edge. The drive too ran close by the water, deep water as Andy was well aware, and was fenced from it by a wooden paling, green from damp. The place had a certain picturesqueness, but a sadness too. Water and trees – trees and water – and between them the long squat house. To Andy it seemed to brood there like a toad. But his healthy mind reverted to the fact that for a strong swimmer the bathing was really splendid.
"Here comes Isobel! Now nothing about swimming, and say the pony's lame!"
The injunction recalled Andy from his meditations and also served to direct his attention to Miss Vintry, who stood, apparently waiting for them, at the end of the drive, with the house on her right and the stables on her left. She was dressed in a business-like country frock, rather noticeably short, and carried a stick with a spike at the end of it. She looked very efficient and also very handsome.
Vivien told her story: Andy, not claiming expert knowledge, yet stoutly maintained that the pony was – or anyhow had been – lame.
"He seems to be getting over it," said Miss Vintry, with a smile that was not malicious but was, perhaps, rather annoyingly amused. "I'm afraid your having had to turn back will vex your father, but I suppose there was no help for it, and I'm sure he'll be much obliged to – "
"Mr. Hayes." Vivien supplied the name, and Andy made his bow.
"Oh yes, I've heard Mr. Harry Belfield speak of you." Her tone was gracious, and she smiled at Andy good-humouredly. If she confirmed his impression of capability, and perhaps added a new one of masterfulness, there was at least nothing to hint that her power would not be well used or that her sway would be other than benevolent.
Vivien had dismounted, and a stable-boy was leading the pony away, after receiving instructions to submit the suspected off fore-leg to his chief's inspection. There seemed nothing to keep Andy, and he was about to take his leave when Miss Vintry called to the retreating stable-boy, "Oh, and let Curly out, will you? He hasn't had his run this afternoon."
Vivien turned her head towards the stables with a quick apprehensive jerk. A big black retriever, released in obedience to Isobel Vintry's order, ran out, bounding joyously. He leapt up at Isobel, pawing her and barking in an ecstasy of delight. In passing Andy, the stranger, he gave him another bark of greeting and a hasty pawing; then he clumsily gambolled on to where Vivien stood.
"He won't hurt you, Vivien. You know he won't hurt you, don't you?" The dog certainly seemed to warrant Isobel's assertion; he appeared a most good-natured animal, though his play was rough.
"Yes, I know he won't hurt me," said Vivien.
The dog leapt up at her, barking, frisking, pawing her, trying to reach her face to lick it. She made no effort to repel him; she had a little riding-whip in her hand, but she did not use it; her arms hung at her side; she was rather pale.
"There! It's not so terrible after all, is it?" asked Isobel. "Down, Curly, down! Come here!"
The dog obeyed her at her second bidding, and sat down at her feet. Andy was glad to see that the ordeal – for that was what it looked like – was over, and had been endured with tolerable fortitude; he had not enjoyed the scene. Somewhat to his surprise Vivien's lips curved in a smile.
"Somehow I wasn't nearly so frightened to-day," she said. Apparently the ordeal was a daily one – perhaps one of several daily ones, for she had already been out hunting. "I didn't run away as I did yesterday, when Harry Belfield was here."
"You are getting used to it," Isobel affirmed. "Mr. Wellgood's quite right. We shall have you as brave as a lion in a few months." Her tone was not unkind or hard, neither was it sympathetic. It was just extremely matter-of-fact. "It's all nerves," she added to Andy. "She overworked herself at school – she's very clever, aren't you, Vivien? – and now she's got to lead an open-air life. She must get used to things, mustn't she?"
Andy had a shamefaced feeling that the ordeals or lessons, if they were necessary at all, had better be conducted in privacy. That had not apparently occurred to Mr. Wellgood or to Isobel Vintry. Indeed that aspect of the case did not seem to trouble Vivien herself either; she showed no signs of shame; she was smiling still, looking rather puzzled.
"I wonder why I was so much less frightened." She turned her eyes suddenly to Andy. "I know. It was because you were there!"
"You ran away, in spite of Mr. Harry's being here yesterday," Isobel reminded her.
"Mr. Hayes is so splendidly big – so splendidly big and solid," said Vivien, thoughtfully regarding Andy's proportions. "When he's here, I don't think I shall be half so much afraid."
"Oh, then Mr. Wellgood must ask him to come again," laughed Isobel. "You see how useful you'll be, Mr. Hayes!"
"I shall be delighted to come again, anyhow, if I'm asked – whether I'm useful or not. And I think it was jolly plucky of you to stand still as you did, Miss Wellgood. If I were in a funk, I should cut and run for it, I know."
"I thought you'd been a soldier," said Isobel.
"Oh, well, it's different when there are a lot of you together. Besides – " He chuckled. "You're not going to get me to let on that I was in a funk then. Those are our secrets, Miss Vintry. Well now, I must go, unless – "
"No, there are no more tests of courage to-day, Mr. Hayes," laughed Isobel.
Vivien's eyes had relapsed into inexpressiveness; they told Andy nothing of her view of the trials, or of Miss Vintry, who had conducted the latest one; they told him no more of her view of himself as she gave him her hand in farewell. He left her still standing on the spot where she had endured Curly's violent though well-meant attentions – again rather a pathetic figure, in her torn habit, with the long red scratch (by-the-by Miss Vintry had made no inquiry about it – that was part of the system perhaps) on her forehead, and with the background, as it were, of ordeals, or tests, or whatever they were to be called. Andy wondered what they would try her with to-morrow, and found himself sorry that he would not be there – to help her with his bigness and solidity.
It was difficult to say that Mr. Wellgood's system was wrong. It was absurd for a grown girl – a girl living in the country – to be frightened at horses, dogs, and motor-cars, to be disgusted by dirt and dust, by getting very hot – and by butchers' shops. All these were things which she would have to meet on her way through the world, as the world is at present constituted. Still he was sorry for her; she was so slight and frail. Andy would have liked to take on his broad shoulders all her worldly share of dogs and horses, of dust, of getting very hot (a thing he positively liked), and of butchers; these things would not have troubled him in the least; he would have borne them as easily as he could have carried Vivien herself in his arms. As he walked home he had a vision of her shuddering figure, with its pale face and reticent eyes, being led by Isobel Vintry's firm hand into Jack Rock's shop in High Street, and there being compelled to inspect, to touch, to smell, the blue-rosetted, red-rosetted, and honourably mentioned carcasses which adorned that Valhalla of beasts – nay, being forced, in spite of all horror, to touch Jack Rock the butcher himself! Isobel Vintry would, he thought, be capable of shutting her up alone with all those dead things, and with the man who, as she supposed, had butchered them.
"I should have to break in the door!" thought Andy, his vanity flattered by remembering that she had seen in him a stand-by, and a security which apparently even Harry Belfield had been unable to afford. True it was that in order to win the rather humble compliment of being held a protection against an absolutely harmless retriever dog he had lost his day's hunting. Andy's heart was lowly; he did not repine.
Chapter III
THE POTENT VOICE
After anxious consultation at Halton it had been decided that Harry Belfield was justified in adopting a political career and treating the profession of the Bar, to which he had been called, as nominal. The prospects of an opening – and an opening in his native Division – were rosy. His personal qualifications admitted of no dispute, his social standing was all that could be desired. The money was the only difficulty. Mr. Belfield's income, though still large, was not quite what it had been; he was barely rich enough to support his son in what is still, in spite of all that has been done in the cause of electoral purity, a costly career. However the old folk exercised economies, Harry promised them, and it was agreed that the thing could be managed. It was, perhaps, at the back of the father's mind that for a young man of his son's attractions there was one obvious way of increasing his income – quite obvious and quite proper for the future owner of Halton Park.
For the moment political affairs were fairly quiet – next year it would be different – and Harry, ostensibly engaged on a course of historical and sociological reading, spent his time pleasantly between Meriton and his rooms in Jermyn Street. He had access to much society of one kind and another, and was universally popular; his frank delight in pleasing people made him pleasant to them. With women especially he was a great favourite, not for his looks only, though they were a passport to open the door of any drawing-room, but more because they felt that he was a man who appreciated them, valued them, needed them, to whom they were a very big and precious part of life. He had not a shred of that indifference – that independence of them – which is the worst offence in women's eyes. Knowing that they counted for so much to him, it was as fair as it was natural that they should let him count for a good deal with them.
But even universal favourites have their particular ties. For the last few months Harry had been especially attached to Mrs. Freere, the wife of a member of Parliament of his own party who lived in Grosvenor Street. Mr. Freere was an exceedingly laborious person; he sat on more committees than any man in London, and had little leisure for the joys of home life. Mrs. Freere could take very good care of herself, and, all question of principles apart, had no idea of risking the position and the comforts she enjoyed. Subject to the limits thus clearly imposed on her, she had no objection at all to her friendship with Harry Belfield being as sentimental as Harry had been disposed to make it; indeed she had a taste for that kind of thing herself. Once or twice he had tried to overstep the limits, elastic as they were – he was impulsive, Mrs. Freere was handsome – but he had accepted her rebuke with frank penitence, and the friendship had been switched back on to its appointed lines without an accident. The situation was pleasant to her; she was convinced that it was good for Harry. Certainly he met at her house many people whom it was proper and useful for him to meet; and her partiality offered him every opportunity of making favourable impressions. If her conscience needed any other salve – it probably did not feel the need acutely – she could truthfully aver that she was in the constant habit of urging him to lose no time in looking out for a suitable wife.
"A wife is such a help to a man in the House," she would say. "She can keep half the bores away from him. I don't do it because Wilson positively loves bores – being bored gives him a sense of serving his country – but I could if he'd let me."
Harry had been accustomed to meet such prudent counsels with protests of a romantic order; but Mrs. Freere, a shrewd woman, had for some weeks past noticed that the protests were becoming rather less vehement, and decidedly more easy for her to control. When she repeated her advice one day, in the spring after Andy Hayes came back from Canada, Harry looked at her for a moment and said,
"Would you drop me altogether if I did, Lily?" He called her Lily when they were alone.
"I'm married; you haven't dropped me," said Mrs. Freere with a smile.
"Oh, that's different. I shouldn't marry a woman unless I was awfully in love with her."
"I don't think I ought to make that a reason for finally dropping you, because you'll probably be awfully in love with several. Put that difficulty – if it is one – out of your mind. We shall be friends."
"And you wouldn't mind? You – you wouldn't think it – ?" He wanted to ask her whether she would think it what, on previous occasions, he had said that he would think it.
Mrs. Freere laughed. "Oh, of course your wife would be rather a bore – just at first, anyhow. But, you know, I can even contemplate my life without you altogether, Harry." She was really fond of him, but she was not a woman given to illusions either about her friends or about herself.
Harry did not protest that he could not contemplate his life without Mrs. Freere, though he had protested that on more than one of those previous occasions. Mrs. Freere leant against the mantelpiece, smiling down at him in the armchair.
"Seen somebody?" she asked.
Harry blushed hotly. "You're an awfully good sort, Lily," he said.
She laughed a little, then sighed a little. Well, it had been very agreeable to have this handsome boy at her beck and call, gracefully adoring, flattering her vanity, amusing her leisure, giving her the luxury of reflecting that she was behaving well in the face of considerable temptation – she really felt entitled to plume herself on this exploit. But such things could not last – Mrs. Freere knew that. The balance was too delicate; a topple over on one side or the other was bound to come; she had always meant that the toppling over, when it came, should be on the safe side – on to the level ground, not over the precipice. A bump is a bump, there's no denying it, but it's better than a broken neck. Mrs. Freere took her bump smiling, though it certainly hurt a little.
"Is she very pretty?"
He jumped up from the armchair. He was highly serious about the matter, and that, perhaps, may be counted a grace in him.
"I suppose I shall do it – if I can. But I'm hanged if I can talk to you about it!"
"That's rather nice of you. Thank you, Harry."
He bowed his comely head, with its waving hair, over her hand and kissed it.
"Good-bye, Harry," she said.
He straightened himself and looked her in the face for an instant. He shrugged his shoulders; she understood and nodded. There was, in fact, no saying what one's emotions would be up to next – what would be the new commands of the Restless and Savage Master. Poor Harry! She knew his case. She herself had "taken him" from her dear friend Rosa Hinde.
He was gone. She stood still by the mantelpiece a moment longer, shrugged shoulders in her turn – really that Savage Master! – crossed the room to a looking-glass – not much wrong there happily – and turned on the opening of the door. Mr. Freere came in – between committees. He had just time for a cup of tea.
"Just time, Wilson?"
"I've a committee at five, my dear."
She rang the bell. "Talk of road-hogs! You're a committee-hog, you know."
He rubbed his bald head perplexedly. "They accumulate," he pleaded in a puzzled voice. "I'm sorry to leave you so much alone, my dear." He came up to her and kissed her. "I always want to be with you, Lily."
"I know," she said. She did know – and the knowledge was one of the odd things in life.
"Goodness, I forgot to telephone!" He hurried out of the room again.
"Serves me right, I suppose!" said Mrs. Freere; to which of recent incidents she referred must remain uncertain.
Mr. Freere came back for his hasty cup of tea.
The Park was gay in its spring bravery – a fine setting for the play of elegance and luxury which took place there on this as on every afternoon. Harry Belfield sought to occupy and to distract his mind by the spectacle, familiar though it was. He did not want to congratulate himself on the thing that had just happened, yet this was what he found himself doing if he allowed his thoughts to possess him. "That's over anyhow!" was the spontaneous utterance of his feelings. Yet he felt very mean. He did not see why, having done the right thing, he should feel so mean. It seemed somehow unfair – as though there were no pleasing conscience, whatever one did. Conscience might have retorted that in some situations there is no "right thing;" there is a bold but fatal thing, and there is a prudent but shabby thing; the right thing has vanished earlier in the proceedings. Still he had done the best thing open to him, and, reflecting on that, he began to pluck up his spirits. His sensuous nature turned to the pleasant side; his volatile emotions forsook the past for the future. As he walked along he began to hear more plainly and to listen with less self-reproach to the voice which had been calling him now for many days – ever since he had addressed that meeting in the Town Hall at Meriton. Meriton was calling him back with the voice of Vivien Wellgood, and with her eyes begging him to hearken. He had "seen somebody," in Mrs. Freere's sufficient phrase. Great and gay was London, full of lures and charms; many were they who were ready to pet, to spoil, and to idolize; many there were to play, to laugh, and to revel with. Potent must be the voice which could draw him from all this! Yet he was listening to it as he walked along. He was free to listen to it now – free since he had left Mrs. Freere's house in Grosvenor Street.
Suddenly he found himself face to face with Andy Hayes – not a man he expected to meet in Hyde Park at four o'clock in the afternoon. But Andy explained that he had "knocked off early at the shop" and come west, to have a last look at the idle end of the town – everybody there seemed idle, even if all were not.
"Because it's my last day in London. I'm going down to Meriton to-morrow for the summer. I've taken lodgings there – going to be an up-and-downer," Andy explained. "And I think I shall generally be able to get Friday to Monday down there."
To Meriton to-morrow! Harry suffered a sharp and totally unmistakable pang of envy.
"Upon my soul, I believe you're right!" he said. "I'm half sick of the racket of town. What's the good of it all? And one gets through the devil of a lot of money. And no time to do anything worth doing! I don't believe I've opened a book for a week."
"Well, why don't you come down too? It would be awfully jolly if you did."
