The Reflections of Ambrosine Part 41

He smiled. "I am fifty. It is a terrible age."

"I dare say it would be nice to be fifty if one had been long enough young--to get there gradually. But to jump there, that is what is not amusing."

"And you have jumped to fifty? I thought there was a story in those Sphinx eyes."

"Why do you say that? You are the second person who has said I have the eyes of the Sphinx. I would like to know why?" I asked.

"Because they are inscrutable. They suggest much and reveal nothing.

It would interest me deeply to hear your impression of things."

"What things?"

"The world, the flesh, or the devil--anything that would make you lift the curtain a little. For instance, what do you think of this society here now?"

"They all seem to be clever people with interests in life."

"Most people have interests in life. The candle would soon burn out otherwise. What are yours, if I may ask?"

"I am observing. I have not decided yet what interests me. I would like to travel, I think, and see the world."

"That is an easy matter at your age. But have you no other desires?"

"No, unless it would be to sleep very soundly and enjoy my food."

"What a little cynic! A gross little materialist! And you look the embodiment of etherealism."

"At fifty I have always understood creature comforts begin to matter more. Each age has its pleasures."

He laughed.

"Tell me something else about the emotions of the fifty-year-olds."

"They get up in the morning and they wonder if it will rain, and, if they are in England, it often answers them by pouring. Then they breakfast, and wonder if they will read or play the piano or walk, or if it matters a sc.r.a.p if they do none of these things, and presently they look at the papers, and they see the war is going on still, and people are being killed, and they wonder to what end. And they read that the opposition is accusing the government of all sorts of crimes and negligences, and they remember that is the fate of governments, whichever side is in. And then they lunch, perhaps, and see friends.

And they find they want some one else's husband but their own, and that the husband, perhaps, only cares for sport, or some one else's wife. And then they sleep after lunch, and drive, and have tea, and read books about philosophy, and dine, and yawn, and finally go to bed."

"What a terrible picture! And when they were young what did they do?"

"It is so long ago I heard of that, but I will try to remember. They woke feeling the day was a glorious thing in front of them, that even if they were in England, and it was raining, the sun would soon come out. And they sang while they dressed, and, if it was summer, they rushed round the garden, and loved all the flowers, and the scent in the air, and the beauty of the lights and colors, and the dear little b.u.t.terflies. And they saw the shades on the trees, and they heard the different notes in the birds' songs. And they were hungry, and glad to eat bread and milk. And every goose was a swan, and every moment full of joy, because they said to themselves, 'Something glorious' is coming to me, also, in this most glorious world!'"

I laughed softly. It seemed so true, and so long ago.

Mr. Budge looked at me. His face was grave and puzzled.

"Child," he said, "it grieves me to hear you talk so. I a.s.sure you, I, who am really fifty, still enjoy all those things that you say only the very young can appreciate."

"We have changed places, then!" I answered, lightly. "And I see Lady Tilchester making a move towards bed. That is a delightful place, where fifty and fifteen can both enjoy oblivion--so good-night!" And I smiled at him over my shoulder as I walked towards the door!

Next day, after church, the Duke and I went for a walk. He kept his promise and did not bore me. We discussed all sorts of things, some interesting, and all in the abstract. We left personalities alone. At last he said:

"Until the beginning of the nineteenth century things went along gradually. People could look ahead for a hundred years and say, with something like certainty, what would be likely to take place. But since then everything has gone with such leaps and bounds that no one could prophesy! Though in five hundred years we shall probably be a wretched republic, constructed out of the debris of the old order, and the Americans will be an aristocratic nation with a king."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because when companies of people get sufficiently rich not to have to work they grow to like whatever will appeal to their vanity and self-importance. There is a halo round a t.i.tle, and you can leave it to your children. A king becomes a necessity then."

"An American king! It does seem a strange idea. Well, we shall not be there to see, so it does not matter to us. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'"

"History always repeats itself. Look at the Romans, a civilized republic, and then they must have an emperor."

"And then the barbarians came and the whole thing was blotted out. And so in the end, _a quoi bon_? No one was ever benefited."

"But the world would not go on if we said '_a quoi bon_' to everything. The fortunate thing is that for the time we think things matter immensely. When people begin to feel nothing matters at all, it is because their livers are out of order. And when a nation becomes apathetic, that is what is the matter too. Look at Italy or Spain!

Their livers are completely out of order. All their inst.i.tutions are jaundiced and each country is going down-hill."

"Poor Spain and Italy!" I said, and I laughed.

"I like to hear you laugh, I don't care what it is about," said the Duke.

"I believe if I had your great position and traditions of family I should try to be a strong influence in the country. I would try to make a name for myself in history," I said. "I would not be contented with being just a duke."

"Ah, if I had you always near me perhaps I should," and he sighed pathetically.

"Now, now! you are breaking your bargain, and talking personally, which will bore me."

"But you began it. I was quietly discussing something--the evolution of the world, I think--when you gave me your opinion of what you would do in my case."

I laughed.

"Yes, but I am permitted to be illogical, not being a man, and I am thinking it might cause me an interest if I had your case."

"I will tell you what my grandfather, the tenth Duke, said to me when he was a very old man--you know his record, of course? He was one of the greatest politicians and _litterateurs_ of his time, but had been in the Guards when a boy, and at sixteen fought at Waterloo. 'After having tasted the best of most things in life, Robert,' he said, 'I can tell you there are only two things really worth having--women and fighting.'"

III

Before the end of my visit to Harley the Duke and I became fast friends, and while not possessing Antony's lightness of wit or personal attractions, he is an agreeable companion and out of the ordinary run of young men. He promised me, as we said good-bye, that he would think of my words, and try to do something with his life to deserve my good opinion.

"Come here whenever you are lonely, dear child," said my beautiful hostess, as we parted. "We delight in having you, and you must not mope at home all by yourself."

The roads were too bad for the automobile, so I drove back to Ledstone in my victoria. It was a brilliant, frosty day, the 11th of December.

Something in the air sent my spirits up. I felt if Mr. Budge had only been with me I could have told him I was growing younger. My first interest when I got home should be to alter my boudoir. Augustus had left me fairly provided with money, and I could, at all events, run up what bills I pleased. That thought brought me back to the last bill I had tried to incur.

What had been the result of my orders? Would the shop-people have told Lady Grenellen that a strange lady had sent her the tea-gowns? Would she have wondered about them and made inquiries? I had heard nothing further. I dismissed the subject and returned to my boudoir. I was just thinking deeply what change I should make as we drove up the avenue. Should I take away the mustard walls and do the whole thing white, or have it pale green, or what? Then we caught up a telegraph-boy. He handed me the orange envelope.

It was from the war office, and ran: