Rest Harrow: A Comedy of Resolution Part 9

"It must be very nice for you," she said to Sanchia.

Sanchia's eyes were now clear, and her smile absolutely general. "To see Mr. Chevenix? Yes, indeed." She collected herself. "But I'm afraid I must go now. I've a great deal to do." She admonished the young man. "Now you had better catch some more," she told him. "I must go."

His face fell--without any regard for Mrs. Devereux--to "Oh, I say!" but it was then revealed to him that there might be a part for him to play.

"Right, Sancie--you're mistress here. See you later." He met her eyes gallantly, and lifted his hat. Sanchia bent her head to Mrs. Devereux, and went staidly away, her duties gathering in her brows. The elder lady and the young man stood face to face without speaking. Then Mrs. Devereux sat deliberately down, and Chevenix braced himself.

"You said just now," the lady began, "to Miss Percival, that she was mistress here. What did you mean by that, exactly?"

Chevenix sprang sideways to this flank attack. "Oh, you know, Mrs.

Devereux! you can't take a chap--literally--what?"

He wanted time; but she gave him none. "You must forgive an old woman of the world--of a certain world. I come here--to a house which belonged to Nevile's father, an old, old friend, and I find--installed--a young lady-- who does not dine--who is extremely capable. I am bewildered, naturally."

Chevenix's "I know, I know," and his friendly nods ran on as an accompaniment.

"And then," said she, raising her voice, "I find that this young lady--and you--are old friends. You speak of her--people--as if they were really--of the sort which--as if she were--of the kind--whom--" It was impossible.

"Really," she said, "it's most unusual. I don't frankly know what I ought to do."

Chevenix listened carefully to her truncated phrases, where what she did not say was the most eloquent part of her discourse. He nodded freely and sagely; he was conciliatory, but clear in opinion. "I know, I know," he said. "It's very rum--you must naturally find it so. I know exactly how you feel about it. Oh, rum's the only word for it. Or rummy. Yes, you might call it rummy--or a go, you know--or anything like that." Then he grew plausible. "But I'm sure it's all right. It's a long story, but I'm quite sure. You've no idea what a fine girl that is. Ah, but I know it."

He tapped his forehead. "I saw the whole thing through--from beginning to end. She's a perfect beauty, to begin with."

That was a bad note. Mrs. Devereux asked him at once if he thought that a good reason. "Well," he said, "I do, you know--in a way. I can't explain it--but I think you see it in her face, you know--and manner. Yes, in her manner. She's uncommon, you see, most uncommon. And as cool as--well, it would be hard to say how cool a hand I thought her." He paused, having got off this effective estimate, round-eyed and triumphant.

"It seems to me, Mr. Chevenix," said the dry lady, "that the less you say the better."

"Not at all, Mrs. Devereux, not at all." He was eager to explain. "I don't think you quite follow me. What I meant to say was, that when a young woman can be as cool as she can be; can run a big place like this, and manage a staff of servants,--outdoors, mind you, and in; no steward, only a bailiff; keep all the accounts; and hold her head up--for she does that, you know, uncommonly well; why, then I say that she must be allowed the benefit of the doubt, you know. You must say, 'Well, it's rum, it's rummy,' or how you like to put it--'but she's got a head on her shoulders, and I suppose she knows what she's doing. I suppose she's seen her way.'

For she's all right, you know, Mrs. Devereux; she's as right as rain. It's irregular, dashed irregular--but, by George, I'll tell you this, Nevile was in a bad way when he first met her; and she's pulled him through. He's steady enough now, is Nevile. Don't drink--nor do other things. He threatened to be a waster in his day; but he's no waster now. She did that, you know; she pulled him through. Why, bless your heart, Mrs.

Devereux, he used to rave about her--rave, and chuck himself about on sofas, and cry like anything, and bite his nails down. There never was such a girl under heaven, he used to say. He called her a G.o.ddess. Love!

Oh, Lord! And I a.s.sure you, on my solemn oath, that he never did a better day's work in his life, nor any girl a finer, than when he put in his word for himself, poor devil, and she said, 'Yes, I'll do it.'"

"Did she--" Mrs. Devereux asked, or began to ask, and he shrugged, and exclaimed,

"Ah! There you have me. Now you've done it. I don't know. That's the fact --I don't know. Everybody thought so. She went on as if she did; but now,-- no, I don't know. You see, she's such a cool hand, she's such a deep one-- you can't tell. There's no telling with that sort. All I can say is, it looked uncommonly like the real thing. We all thought so at the time. The symptoms were right enough--or wrong enough, you'll say--and then, look at her since! She's stuck to him through everything--good report, bad report, everything. She's chucked her people--or been chucked. Had four beautiful sisters--glowing, upstanding, fine girls, all of them; and chucked. Old father, in the City: chucked. Mother, big, handsome, hot-tempered: chucked. And all for Nevile, who (between ourselves) ain't worth it. He's not a bad one, but he's not a good one, either. He's got a cruel temper, Nevile has--like that ghastly wife of his. But--" he cried, opening his arms--"there you are. They're like that, her sort. Mighty quiet about it, you know; was turned into the streets, you may say; father, mother, sisters, all showed their backs. What does she do? Sets her teeth together, looks straight ahead, and takes old Nevile. And here she is now oh, as--right as rain. What a girl, eh?"

Mrs. Devereux was certainly moved. She was almost prepared to admit a genuinely exceptional case. But she had a question to ask. Did Ingram intend to marry her--now?

At this Chevenix stepped back, as if to avoid a blow. "Ah!" he said. "Ah!

That's it. Ask me another."

"Do you mean to say of your friend, and mine," she pursued him, "that he would dare--after all that you tell me--to---"

"No," said Chevenix, in a desperate stew; "no, I don't mean that. I think he would have her this moment--if he could get her. But--the fact is-- Well, you know--" and he glanced anxiously at the lady, "I've nothing to go upon, absolutely nothing as yet; but the fact is, I'm not sure whether she would take him, you know--now."

"Is that possible?" was all the lady could find to say, with a throw-up of the hands. "Is that possible?"

"Quite--with Sanchia," said Chevenix. "Through with him, you know--got to the bottom of him--sick of him. I believe he bores her, you know." Mrs.

Devereux looked at him, more in sorrow than in anger, and then walked slowly away. Most eloquent comment.

VI

Whatever may have been the net result upon Mrs. Devereux's mind of the explanatory revelations made upon the river bank, two things became clear as day succeeded day. One was that Miss Percival avoided her, the other that she sought out Miss Percival. Being entirely unable to succeed, she did not renounce her now benevolent att.i.tude towards the young lady, but she decided to leave Wanless.

All that she could do, she did. No wheedling of Mrs. Wilmot's could draw any further comment from her, and she said nothing to Ingram either for or against what she supposed now to be the desire, the honourable desire of his heart. Oddly enough, though it was against all her upbringing, Chevenix had so far succeeded in impressing her that she rather respected Sanchia the more for being cool now that rehabilitation was in full sight, and practically within touch of her hand. Chevenix, in fact, had made her see that Sanchia was a personality, not merely a pretty woman. You can't label a girl "unfortunate" if, with the chance of being most fortunate, she puts her hand to her chin, and reflects, and says, Hum, shall I? or shall I not? Short of deliberately knocking at the girl's door, she would have done anything to exchange views. That she could not do. She found herself waiting about in corridors and halls for Sanchia's possible pa.s.sage. Once she had marked her down in the garden, flower-basket on arm, scissors in hand. She had been fluttered, positively felt her heart-beats, as she sailed down in pursuit; but then Sanchia, under the brim of her garden hat, must have divined her, for, with a few clear words of direction over her shoulder to the young gardener who was helping her, she had steered smoothly away, and, without running, could not have been caught. The thing was marked, not uncivilly, but quite clearly. What could one do?

Two more days of fine weather and perplexity, and she announced her departure as imminent. We were at Thursday. She must positively leave on Monday. "No more letters to write about my shortcomings," was Ingram's comment upon this intelligence to Mrs. Wilmot apart. "It's a mistake to have people to stay with you who've known you all their lives. They are for ever at their contrasts: why isn't one still a chubby-faced boy, for instance? They see you in an Eton jacket once, and you're printed in it for ever. So you glare by contrast, you hurt, you wound. In other words, you have character, you see, which is dashed inconvenient to a woman who remembers you with none. You upset her calculations--and sometimes she upsets yours. No offence to Mrs. Devereux; but I rather wish she hadn't come."

Mrs. Wilmot, who had no general conversation, thought that they ought to be "nice" to Mrs. Devereux; to which Ingram replied, snarling, that he was always "nice" to her, but that if a woman will spend her time writing letters or disapproving of her host, she can't expect to be happy in such a world as ours. But the worst of Mrs. Devereux, he went on to say, was that she couldn't be happy unless she did disapprove of somebody. Mrs.

Wilmot, aware of whom the lady did disapprove, dug holes in the turf, and wondered what she herself ought to do. Supposing Mrs. Devereux went on Monday, ought not she--? Now, she didn't at all want to go just now.

At luncheon Ingram proposed a visit--to certain Sowerbys of Sowerby, and pointedly asked Mrs. Devereux to come. "You like her, you know. It's beyond dispute. So I do hope you'll come. I'll drive you over in the phaeton."

Mrs. Devereux agreed to go. Chevenix said that he should fish. He hated calling--except on Mrs. Devereux, of course. He braved the discerning eyes of the lady, who had already caught him at his fishing.

The phaeton safely away, he found Sanchia, as he had hoped, in the garden.

Her gauntlets were on, an ap.r.o.n covered her; she was flushed with the exercise of the hoe. Struan Glyde, silent and intent, worked abreast of her. He had just muttered something or another which had given her pause.

She had her chin on her hands, her hands on her hoe, while she considered her reply. Then Chevenix heard her slow, "Yes, I suppose so. I don't like it at all, but I'm afraid you're right. We are poor creatures, made to be underneath."

The cheerful youth rubbed his head. "Candid--what? Where _have_ we got to now?"

Glyde had stopped in the act to hoe: he was stopping still, his blade in the ground, but he turned his face sideways to answer her. "Not so," he said, "unless you will have it so. She is queen of the world who is queen of herself." Then Sanchia saw Chevenix, and waited for him.

"Philosophy--what?" the cheerful youth hailed them. "Plain living, hard thinking, what? Upon my soul, you are a pair! Now, Miss Sancie, I can expect the truth from you. What's Glyde preaching? Heresy? Schism? Sudden death?"

"He was talking about women," Sanchia told him.

"Ah," the youth mused aloud. "He was, was he? Glyde on Woman. He ought to wait for his beard to grow; then you might listen to him."

Glyde, who was dumb in company, was hacking into the clods, while Chevenix, to whom he was negligible, pursued his own affair.

"I say, Sancie, I'm going to ask a favour of you--not the first, by any means; but I always was a st.u.r.dy beggar. The Lord loveth a st.u.r.dy beggar, eh? Well, look here, I'm at a loose end again. Nevile's taken 'em out driving--to a tea-party--to the Sowerbys. I jibbed, though I was asked. I lied, because they drove me into a corner. I couldn't face old Sowerby's chin--and all those gels with their embroidered curates--what? You know what I mean. I mean their church-work, and the curates they do it for. So I said I was going fishing--which was a lie--and Mrs. Devereux as good as said it was a lie. Now, suppose you invite me to tea; how would that be?"

"Then you _do_ go fishing," said Sanchia, and smiled. "Very well. I do invite you."

"Bravo! You're a true friend. O woman, in our hours of ease...! Trust me for an apposite quotation ... and new, what? I believe I'm pretty good at quotations. My people used to play a game. You write down a name on a bit of paper; then you fold it down; then a quotation; then another name.

That's my vein of gold. Now you have it--the secret's out. I'm coming, you know. I accept. Many thanks. What's your hour?"

"Half-past four," she told him. He bowed, and left her with Glyde. He turned to look at them as he left the walled garden, and saw them near together,--Glyde vehement in his still way of undertones, she listening as she worked.

At half-past four she received him in her room. Though her blouse was of lace and her skirt of green cloth, she looked like a virgin of the Athenian procession. Her clothes flowed about her, clung to her like weed as she swam. As he met her friendly, silent welcome, he expressed her to himself--"By the G.o.ds above, you are--without exception--the healthiest-- finest--bravest--young woman--that ever made the sun shine in grey weather." Aloud, he made things easy.

"Here's your tea-party, Sancie, dressed in its best, eager for the fray.

When I think of old Sowerby taking whisky-pegs while his family has tea and curates, I bless my happy stars that I've got a friend at court--to save me, don't you know, from the wicked man. When the wicked man--what?

You know the quotation, I expect. Not one of my best--but give me time."

While she made tea he pried about her room, looking at photographs. He paused here and there as one struck him, and commented aloud. "Old Nevile, with his sour mouth. Looks as if the tongs had nipped him in the act. Why _will_ he roll his moustache like that? It's not pretty--shows him like a boar, with his tusks out, don't you think? But he's a good-looking beggar, and knows it. Ah! and there you all are--or, rather, were--all five of you! Philippa, Hawise, Melusine, Vicky, you. What a bevy! I say--" He turned to her. "I met old Vicky, for a minute, the other day. Met her in Bond Street. Sinclair'd got the pip, or something, down at Aldershot.