To Love Part 25

She picked out Joan as being the girl at once; her eyes sped past f.a.n.n.y's muslin-clad figure even as she was greeting her, and rested on the other girl's face. Pale, for Joan was very nervous of this afternoon, wide-eyed, the soft brown hair tucked away under the small, round-shaped hat. She was pretty and very young-looking. Mabel, seeing her, and remembering all the old stories in connection with her, was suddenly sorry for her very childishness. Then she hardened her heart; the innocence must at least be a.s.sumed, and the girl--Mabel had made up her mind as to that--should not win d.i.c.k as a husband without some effort being made to prevent her.

Because of this sense of antagonism between them, for Joan had not missed the swift glance, the cold hardening of her hostess' face, it was a relief to have f.a.n.n.y between them. f.a.n.n.y was talking very hard and fast, it was quite unnecessary for anyone else to say anything.

"My," she gasped, standing and staring round her with frank approval, "you have a beautiful place here. Dr. Grant has been telling us about it till we were mad to see it. Joan and I live in London; there is not much in the way of trees round our place, nothing but houses, and dirty pavements and motor-buses. I always say"--she took Mabel into her confidence with perfect friendliness--"that there is nothing so disagreeable in this world as a dirty pavement; don't you agree with me?"

"The country is nicer than town, certainly," Mabel answered. "We are having tea over there under the trees; will you come straight across, or would you like to go in and take off your motor-veils?"

"We will do nicely as we are," f.a.n.n.y did all the talking for the two of them; Joan so far had not opened her lips. "It is such a little drive from Sevenoaks, and I am just dying for tea."

Mabel led the way across the lawn, with f.a.n.n.y chattering volubly beside her, and d.i.c.k followed with Joan.

"The sister is a dear," he tried to tell her on the way across, for in some way he suddenly felt the tension which had fallen between the two women; "only she is most awfully shy. She is one of those people who take a lot of knowing."

"And I am one of the people that she doesn't want to know," Joan answered. She was angry with herself for having come. A feeling of having lost caste, of being a stranger within these other people's friendship, possessed her. It set d.i.c.k's kindliness, his evident attraction on a plane of patronage, and brought her to a sullen mood of despair. Why had she ventured back on to the borderline of this life that had once been hers? Mabel's cold, extreme politeness seemed to push her further and further beyond the pale.

Tea under these circ.u.mstances would have been a trying meal if it had not been for f.a.n.n.y. f.a.n.n.y had dressed with great care for this party, and she had also made many mental resolutions to "mind what she was saying." Her harshest critic could not have said that she had not made herself look pretty; it was only Joan's hurt eyes that could discover the jarring note everywhere in the carefully-thought-out costume. And f.a.n.n.y realized that Joan, for some reason or other, was suffering from an attack of the sulks. She plunged because of it more and more recklessly into conversation. f.a.n.n.y always felt that silence was a thing to be avoided at all costs.

"The War will make a lot of difference to us," she attempted finally, all preceding efforts having fallen a little flat. "Daddy Brown says, if there is war between Germany and England, there won't be any Spring tours."

"But of course there will not be War," Mrs. Grant put in with great precision; "the idea is impossible nowadays. And may I ask what a Spring tour is?"?

"Tom says the city is getting very uneasy," Mabel plunged into the breach. "It does seem an absurd idea, but of course Germany has been aching to fight us for years."

"Horrors, the Germans, don't you think?" chipped in f.a.n.n.y; "they do eat so nastily."

"No doubt you meet a great many foreigners, travelling about as you do,"

Mrs. Grant agreed politely.

"Do you know this part of the country at all?"? Mabel questioned Joan, then flushed herself at the absurdity of the question; "I suppose not, if you live most of your time in London."

Joan lifted hard eyes. "I lived down here as a child," she said stiffly.

"And in London"--Mabel was doing her best to be friendly--"have you nice rooms? d.i.c.k tells me you live all alone; I mean that your home is not there."

"I live in an attic," Joan answered again, "and I have no home."

"Your son is ever so much too fond of the theatre," f.a.n.n.y's voice broke across their monosyllabic conversation. "He is there every night, Mrs.

Grant."

"And do you also go to the theatre every night?" Joan heard the petrified astonishment in Mrs. Grant's tone and caught the agitated glance which Mabel directed to d.i.c.k. The misery in her woke to sharp temper.

"f.a.n.n.y has let the cat out of the bag," she said, leaning forward and speaking directly to Mrs. Grant. "But I am afraid it is unpleasantly true. We are on the stage, you know; Dr. Grant ought to have warned you; it was hardly fair to let you meet us without telling you."

A pained silence fell on the party; Mrs. Grant's face was a perfect study; d.i.c.k's had flushed dull red. Mabel stirred uneasily and made an attempt to gather her diplomacy about her.

"It was not a case of warning us," she began; "you forget that we saw you ourselves the other night when you played _The Merry Widow_. Won't you have some more tea, Miss Leicester?"--Joan had been introduced to them under that name.

A great nervousness had descended upon f.a.n.n.y. She had talked a great deal too much, she knew, and probably Joan was furiously angry with her.

But beyond that was the knowledge that she had--as she would have expressed it herself--upset Joan's apple-cart. Real contrition shone in the nervous smile she directed at Mrs. Grant.

"I'm that sorry," she said, "if I have said anything that annoyed you; but you mustn't mix me up with Joan; she is quite different. I----"

"f.a.n.n.y!" Joan interrupted the jumbled explanation. "You have nothing to apologize for. We eat and look very much like ordinary people, don't we?"--she stared at Mabel as she spoke--"it is only just our manners, and morals that are a trifle peculiar. If you are ready, f.a.n.n.y, I think we had better be getting back."

d.i.c.k stood up abruptly; he did not meet Mabel's eyes, but she could see that his face was very white and angry.

"I am driving you back," he said, "if you do not mind waiting here I will fetch the motor round."

He took the girl's side straight away without hesitation. Mabel caught her breath on the bitter words that rose to her lips. Joan's outburst had been an extraordinary breach of good manners; nothing that had happened could in any way excuse or condone it. Yet it was not Joan that d.i.c.k was angry with, but herself.

"I very much regret you should feel as you do," she said to Joan, after d.i.c.k had gone off to fetch the motor; "your friend and yourself were my guests; we none of us had the slightest desire to be rude to you."

"Oh, no," flamed Joan in answer; "you did not want to be rude, you just wanted to make us understand quite plainly the difference that lay between us. And you have made us realize it, and it is I that have been rude. Come along, f.a.n.n.y"--the motor could be seen coming along the drive; she swept to her feet--"let us go without talking any more about it."

She turned, saying no good-byes, and walked away from them. f.a.n.n.y hesitated a moment, her eyes held a pathetic appeal and there were tears near the surface. She felt she had ruined Joan's chances of a suitable marriage.

"I am sorry," she whispered; "it all began beautifully, and--Joan isn't like me," she hurried out again, "she is proud and--well, you would understand"--she appealed to Mabel--"for you are proud, too--if you had to earn your money as she has to."

Then she turned and hurried after her retreating companion. Something that she had said stayed, however, like a little pin-p.r.i.c.k, in Mabel's thoughts. It brought her to a sudden realization of Joan's feelings and regret that she had not succeeded in being nicer to the girl.

"If d.i.c.k is married to either of those two young ladies," said Mrs.

Grant heavily, "he is ruined already." She rose majestically and gathered up her work. "I have been thoroughly upset," she announced, "and must go and lie down. Perhaps when d.i.c.k comes back you will point out to him that some explanation is necessary to me for the extraordinary scene I have just been through. I shall be ready to see him in an hour."

f.a.n.n.y wept a few tears on the drive home. It had all been her fault, she explained between sniffs to Joan.

"And I promised not to talk too much," she gulped. "Oh, honey, don't let it stand between him and you"--she nodded at d.i.c.k's back, for he was occupying the front seat alone--"I shall never forgive myself if you do."

"Don't fuss, f.a.n.n.y," Joan answered; she was beginning to feel thoroughly ashamed of her ill-mannered outburst. "And for goodness' sake don't cry.

You have not brought anything more between us than has always been there."

"Oh, I wish we hadn't gone," wailed f.a.n.n.y. "He wants to marry you, Joan; they always do if they introduce their mothers to you."

For no reason whatsoever, for she had not thought of him for months, a memory of Gilbert flashed into Joan's mind. Her eyes were fixed on the back of d.i.c.k's head, and it was strange--the feeling that surged over her as she brought these, the two men in her life, before her mind's eye. Perhaps it was only at that very moment that she realized her love for d.i.c.k; realized it and fought against it in the same breath. She had known him so short a time; he had been kind to her; but what, after all, did that amount to? When the company left Sevenoaks he would probably never see her or think of her again. Does one build love from so fleeting a fancy?

None the less the thought brought her to a mood of gentleness and she could not bear to let him go away thinking her still hurt and angry. As he helped her out of the car she smiled at him.

"I am sorry that I lost my temper and was rude," she said. f.a.n.n.y had fled indoors and left them tactfully alone. "I don't know what you must think of me." Her eyes fell away from his, he saw the slow red creeping into her cheeks.

"Don't," he spoke quickly, he was for the moment feeling very vindictive against Mabel. "When you apologize you make it ten times worse. It was not your fault the least little bit in the world."

"But it was," she answered; she looked up at him. "If you must have the honest truth, I was jealous from the moment I got out there. And jealousy hurts sometimes, you know, especially when it is mixed up with memories of something you once had and have lost for ever."

"That is nonsense," d.i.c.k said. It was in his heart to propose there and then, but he held it back. "I meant you to enjoy yourself, I hoped you would like Mabel, and you did not--thanks to her own amiability. Am I forgiven?"

"We forgive each other," she answered; she put her hand into his, "and good-night, if not good-bye. To-morrow is our last performance, you know, we leave the next day."

"And even with that it is not good-bye," he told her. "I shall be at the theatre to-morrow night."