Imprudence Part 4

"So am I," he replied. "I wonder if you will be looking out of a window to-night?"

"I expect so."

"I prowl about most nights," he said, and scrutinised her face intently to observe the effect of his words.

"I know. I've seen you."

"It is regrettable," he remarked, "that the upper story of a private house is usually inaccessible. Won't you have another piece of cake?

No! Miss Matilda, may I fetch you some tea?"

The maidenly b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the four Miss Graynors, who were pale reflections of their eldest sister, were pleasantly stirred by Steele's punctilious courtesy. They were envious of their young half-sister, whose temerity had led her into the indiscretion of spending an entire morning in the society of a member of the opposite s.e.x. It does not follow that a life which has known no romance is innocent of romantic aspirations. Miss Matilda, spare and prim and slightly grey, experienced a vague sense of loss and of resentment against her single state when she met Steele's smiling, youthful eyes, and reflected that no man's glance had ever rested upon herself with that look of pleased interest which she observed in Steele's face whenever it was turned in Prudence's direction. Prudence, of course, was pretty and young. Miss Matilda's girlhood lay behind her, but it had known none of the delights that her virgin heart longed for in the secret chamber which she seldom unlocked even for her own inspection. The emotions that lay concealed there were unbecoming in a modest woman whose function it was to be pious and dutiful in the acceptance of her lot.

It was possibly due to these hidden emotions that Steele found Miss Matilda's society less depressing than her sister's, and he clung to it tenaciously until the entrance of brother William a.s.signed him as by right to the position of audience to the ponderous conversation of this man of limited intelligence and no humour. William would have failed to understand that a man, even when young, would rather talk with a woman than be talked to by himself. The manner in which his sisters effaced themselves in his presence was a tribute to, as well as a recognition of, his masculine superiority. It was the want of a proper appreciation on his youngest sister's part in this respect that so frequently made it necessary for him to a.s.sert his dignity before her. He was angry with her now, and he pa.s.sed her with his face averted, righteous indignation in his frown and in the set of his shoulders. Steele felt that it would be a pleasure to kick him; but when he detected the mischievous wickedness in Prudence's eyes, William's dignity became a matter for amus.e.m.e.nt rather than annoyance; the man was so obviously an a.s.s.

"The weather," William observed, as he took his tea, waited on by two of his sisters despite Steele's efforts to relieve them, "shows signs of breaking. The barometer has fallen."

"The country needs rain," Miss Agatha remarked in tones of satisfaction.

And for the next few minutes the advantages of a good downpour and the benefit therefrom to the garden as well as to the farmers, was discussed in detail: the watering of the borders, it transpired, fully occupied the gardener's time each evening as a result of the dry spell.

Bored beyond measure, Steele took an abrupt leave, and declining William's invitation to take a stroll round the grounds in his company, seized his hat and fled.

"She'll never stick it," he reflected, as he banged the gate and hurried away down the road like a man pursued. "She can't. She'll do a bunk, one day. I would in her place."

And Prudence, defenceless in the drawing-room, meeting the brunt of William's anger, and the reproaches of the others, determined in her rebellious soul that if release did not come in some legitimate form before she was twenty-one, she would on acquiring that age obtain it for herself.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The moonlight fell softly on Prudence's bright hair, touching the curls lovingly with a wan brilliance that, paling their shining gold, added a purer sheen to replace the beauty stolen by the night. Its light was reflected in the blue depths of her eyes, eyes which took on the misty darkness of the night sky so that the moonbeams felt at home therein and lingered there confidingly. She leaned far out of the window, and the fragrance of some early gloire de Dijon roses was wafted towards her on the night breeze. A scent besides that of the roses stole up to her out of the shadows--the scent of cigarette smoke, too close under her window to suggest that the smoker was beyond the wall that shut off the garden from the road. Prudence had watched the smoker enter the garden; she watched him now throw away his cigarette among the flowers in one of the borders as he advanced, and she heard his voice speaking softly to her out of the gloom.

"Can't you come down?" he asked.

"Not unless you have come provided with a rope ladder," she replied as softly.

"By Jove! I never thought of that. But you aren't locked in?"

"Not in the sense you mean. But locked doors would be trifles compared with the opposition I should encounter if I attempted to join you. I'd love to come out; but it's impossible."

"Is there any likelihood of our being overheard?" he asked with caution.

Prudence laughed quietly.

"Every likelihood," she answered. "I don't think I mind."

Steele stood under cover of the wall of the house. There were no lights in the windows on that side; he had observed that on former occasions; the library, where Mr Graynor sat every evening with William, faced the other way.

"Then I'm going to run the risk and stay and talk with you," he said.

There was a strange intimacy in the situation that appealed to Prudence.

The adventure of the morning was as nothing compared with this stolen interview. The insufficient light of the moon, and the distance which divided them, added a touch of romance which she found pleasantly exciting. To gaze down upon his upturned face and the uncertain outline of his form below stirred her imagination; and the necessity for caution, occasioning them to lower their voices to whispers, gave to the utterance of the most trivial speech the flavour of intimate things.

She leaned down nearer to him.

"It's rather like Romeo and Juliet, isn't it?" she said.

"That ended rottenly," he replied, and laughed.

"So will this probably. What made you venture inside?"

"Isn't the reason obvious?" he returned. "I thought I had prepared you for my visit at tea. It wasn't possible for us to say good-bye like that. I'm sorry I got you into that mess."

"You didn't," Prudence a.s.sured him gently. "I knew how it would be.

I'm not regretting--anything. Stinging nettles cease to hurt when the rash subsides. William is furious. We don't speak."

"That must be rather a relief for you."

She dimpled suddenly.

"He doesn't think so. When I apologise I am to be taken into favour again. So, if he keeps to that, it is likely to be many years before we interchange remarks."

"What an egregious a.s.s he is," Steele commented. "Never mind that now.

We don't want to discuss him. I came to-night to beg a favour. Will you write to me sometimes? ... and may I write? I don't want to lose touch altogether."

"I can't promise that," she said, and fingered a rosebud below her window, snapping its stem in nervous preoccupation. "All our letters go into a box at the post office and are sorted before we receive them.

They would not allow me to correspond with you."

"Could we not arrange a little deception," he suggested, "by means of which you could collect your own letters from the post office?"

But this idea did not commend itself to Prudence. She might be a rebel, but she was honest, as courageous people usually are; anything in the nature of deceit repelled her. "I should not care to do that," she said. Her answer pleased Steele, although it defeated his purpose. He had hoped to follow up this pleasant friendship begun under such unusual and difficult conditions. It was the quality of conspiracy and quick intimacy which made the acquaintance so extraordinarily attractive to him. He was more than half in love with her already; and it galled him to reflect that with his present uncertain prospects he was no match for this daughter of a wealthy man. He could not have afforded to marry had other conditions proved favourable, which they did not: Mr Graynor would scarcely have welcomed a son-in-law with a salary of under two hundred a year.

"I am afraid that settles it," he said in tones compounded of a mixture of emotions. "I wonder if ever I'll have the good luck to meet you again?"

This remark pulled Prudence up sharply. She had never considered the question of his going out of her life; the suggestion thus forced on her unwilling attention hurt. Abruptly the knowledge came to her that she did not wish to lose his friendship. She had not considered the matter of his going away seriously: she had taken it for granted that the business that had brought him to Wortheton would bring him again; no doubt had crossed her mind as to a further meeting--now that the doubt was implanted a vague distress seized her, bringing with it a sense of desolation. She realised that when he was gone she would miss him, would feel doubly lonely by comparison with this bright break in the monotony of her life.

"You'll come again?" she said quickly.

"It's possible," he answered, "but not in the least likely. It was just a chance that brought me this time. The firm sends a more important man as a rule. If I come again you will soon know of it. I shall make my first appearance under your window. In the meanwhile you will quite possibly have forgotten my existence."

"Amid the distractions of Wortheton!" Prudence retorted. "That's very probable, isn't it?"

He laughed.

"I won't hear a word against Wortheton if it keeps your memory green,"

he returned.

"It fossilises memory," she answered. "Every little event that has ever befallen is stamped on my mind in indelible colours--drab colours for the unpleasant event, and brighter tints for the pleasant in comparison with their different degrees of agreeableness."

"And this event?" he questioned. "These stolen moments? In what colour is this event painted?"