Set in Silver
in love (I should think not, indeed!), but he wanted me to promise to be
engaged to him from now on.
"I won't," said I--short and sudden, like that.
"You'll jolly well have to," said he. Then he proceeded to warn me that
if I didn't, my friend Miss Ellaline Lethbridge must look out for
herself, because I would no longer be in a position to guard her
interests.
I mentioned that he was a perfect beast, and he said it might be true,
but I was a deceiver, and it was not good taste for the pot to call the
kettle black.
"I'd rather go into the kind of convent where one's not allowed to speak
a word all one's life, except '_Memento mori_,' than marry you," said I,
politely.
But it seemed that he wasn't thinking so much about being married, as
just being engaged. As to marrying, we were both very young, and he
would wait for me till we could afford to marry, which mightn't be for
some time yet, he explained. What he was keen on beginning at once, was
being engaged.
"Why?" I asked, savagely.
"Because I don't want anyone else to think he has a chance. That's the
plain truth," said Dick, in the most brazen way.
That staggered me; for he was glaring straight into my eyes in such a
meaning way I couldn't help understanding _who_ was in his mind. So
utterly _ridiculous_! As if the person he meant would ever think of me!
And Dick used to say himself that Sir Lionel Pendragon took no interest
in girls, or any women except Mrs. Senter. I'd have liked to remind him
of this, only I wouldn't let him see that I read his thoughts.
"I believe you must be mad," said I.
"I shouldn't wonder," said he. "Anyhow, I'm mad enough to go straight to
Sir Lionel with the whole story the minute he comes back from his walk
with his sister and my aunt, unless you do what I want."
"That won't be very nice for Mrs. Senter," I temporized, "if she's
enjoying this trip she was so anxious to take; for if Sir Lionel knows
about Ellaline the tour will probably break up, and he'll rush over to
France."
"On the contrary, it will be nice for her," Dick returned, "because many
a heart is caught in the rebound."
I said that this argument was too intricate for me, but it wasn't
really. I knew quite well what he meant, though of course he is
absolutely mistaken, as far as Sir Lionel's feelings toward me are
concerned. But I had to think quickly, and I thought maybe he was right
about his aunt. She would be a woman who would make _any_ use of an
emergency. And once she had compromised poor Sir Lionel, it would be too
late, for I have an idea he'd be exaggeratedly honourable.
You may smile at my saying she'd compromise him. But you know what I
mean. I'm not sure _I_ do--but anyhow, I couldn't bear to have her do
it, especially if it could be prevented by me. I sat still a minute,
reflecting, and then asked Dick what he meant by "being engaged."
He replied that he meant the usual thing; and I replied to this that
nothing could tempt me. He saw I wouldn't go back from my word, so he
promised, if I _would_ be engaged, that he'd not try even to hold my
hand until I should be willing. All he would ask was, that he might tell
his aunt we had a "kind of a, sort of an understanding," which might
develop into an engagement, and let _her_ tell Sir Lionel. Nothing more
than that; and why should I mind, when in any case there could never
have been a question of my marrying Sir L.?
I said I did mind horribly, but not on that account, and I should never
marry anyone. I was almost ready to cry, I felt so wretched. I don't
think I was ever as miserable in my life, dear; though, when I come to
argue it out with myself, I've pretended so much to please Ellaline, it
oughtn't to matter, pretending a little more.
Just then all three of the others came along, and seeing us on the
beach, joined us. Dick put on a familiar air with me, as if he had
rights, and I saw Sir Lionel glance from me to him, and draw his
eyebrows together.
I came indoors then, to my room, and didn't go out again till dinner
time. I was half afraid Mrs. Senter might already have got in her deadly
work, but if she had, Sir Lionel didn't say anything to me. Only it was
a horrid dinner, in spite of nice, seaside things to eat. Nobody spoke
much, and I felt so choked I could hardly swallow.
Oh, I am homesick for you, dear. I hurried upstairs, as soon as dinner
was over, saying I had letters to write. To-morrow, early, we start for
Sidmouth, in Devonshire, going by way of Weymouth and Dorchester. As I
write, looking from my window, across which I haven't drawn the
curtains, I can see Sir Lionel and Mrs. Senter strolling out of the
hotel, toward the beach. There's a lovely blue dusk, which the sunset
struck into a million glorious sparks, and then let fade again into a
dull glow, like ashes of roses. They look a romantic couple walking
together. I wonder if they are talking about each other, to each other,
or--about _Dick and me_? I feel as if I should have to scream--"Sir
Lionel, don't believe it. It isn't true!" But of course, I can't. I
think I shall go to bed, and then I won't be tempted to look out of the
window.
Always your own loving
Audrie.
Please write at once, and address Poste Restante, Torquay.
XIV
SIR LIONEL PENDRAGON TO COLONEL PATRICK O'HAGAN
_Knoll Park Hotel, Sidmouth, Devon_,
_August 2nd. Evening_
My Dear Pat: I am a fool. By this time you will soon be
receiving my first letter, and saying to yourself, "He is on the way to
being a fool." Well, I am already that fool. I didn't see where I was
drifting, but I see now that it had begun then; and of course you, a
spectator, won't be dense as I was at first. You will know.
I didn't suppose this thing could happen to me again. I thought I was
safe. But at forty, it's worse with me than when I was twenty-one.
I don't need to explain. Yet I will say in self-defence that, fool as I
am, I am not going to let anyone but you know that I'm a fool.
Especially the girl. She would be thunderstruck. Not that girls of
nineteen haven't married men of forty, and perhaps cared for them. But
this girl has been brought up since her babyhood to think of me as her
guardian, and an elderly person beyond the pale where love or even
flirtation is concerned. Imagine a daughter and namesake of Ellaline de
Nesville being in the society of a man, and not trying to flirt with
him! It's almost inconceivable. But Ellaline the second shows not the
slightest inclination to flirt with me. She is gentle, sweet, charming,
even obedient; perhaps I might say daughterly, if I were willing to hurt
my own feelings. Therefore, even without Mr. Dick Burden's oppressive
respect for me, I must suppose that I am regarded as a generation
behind.
By the way, that young beast made me a present of a cane the other day.
Not an ordinary stick, but an old gentleman's cane, with a gold head on
it. He said he saw it in a shop at Weymouth, where we stopped for lunch,
and thought it so handsome, he begged that I would accept it. His aunt
laughed, called him a ridiculous little boy, and advised me to have
"Thou shalt not steal" engraved on a gold band, with my name and
address. This was to soothe my _amour propre_; but, while I wonder
whether the thing really _is_ a gift suitable to my years, I long to lay
it across the giver's back. He gave it to me before Ellaline, too. What
an idiot I am to care! I can laugh, for my sense of humour hasn't yet
jilted me, if my good sense has. But the laugh is on the wrong side of
my mouth.
I feel somewhat better, having confessed my foolishness--which you would
have divined without the confession. The girl doesn't suspect. I enact
the "heavy father" even more ostentatiously than if I weren't ass enough
to prefer a role for which time and our relationship have unfitted me.
But it's rather curious, isn't it, what power one little woman can wield
over a man's life, even the life of a man who is as far as possible from
being a "woman's man"? Ellaline de Nesville pretty well spoiled my early
youth, or would if I hadn't freed myself to take up other interests. She
burdens the remainder of my young years by making me, willy nilly, the
guardian of her child. And, not content with that, she (indirectly)
destroys what might have been the comfortable contentment of my middle
age.
Women are the devil. All but this one--and she isn't a woman yet.
The dangerous part is that I am not as grimly unhappy as I ought to be.
There are moments, hours, when I forget that there's any obstacle
dividing Ellaline's future from mine. I think of her as belonging to me.
I feel that she is to be a part of my life always, as she is now. And
until I have again drummed it into my rebellious head that she is not
for me, that my business with her is to see that she gets a rich,
well-born, and well-looking young husband, not more than two-thirds of
my age, I enjoy myself hugely in her nearness.
But, why not, after all? Just for the length of this tour in the
motor-car, which throws us so constantly together? As long as I don't
betray myself, why not? Why not revel in borrowed sunshine? At Graylees,
I can turn over a new leaf; I need see very little of her there. She and
Emily will have plenty to do, with their social duties, and I shall have
my own. Let me be a fool in peace till Graylees, then. If I _can_ be a
fool in peace!
Talking of borrowed sunshine, England seems to have borrowed an
inexhaustible supply from some more "favoured clime" this summer. I dare
say we shall have to pay for it later. I shall have to pay for my
private supply, too--but no matter.
Next to my native Cornwall, I think I prefer Devonshire; and Devonshire
is being particularly kind and hospitable, offering us her choicest
gifts.
It's said that the Earth is a host who murders all his guests. But he
certainly gives some of us, for some of the time, glorious innings
during our visit to him. I don't complain, though my stay so far has
been accompanied by a good deal of stormy weather.
I remember your once remarking that Weymouth would be a good place to
hide in, if you wanted to grow a beard or anything lingering and
unbecoming; but you wouldn't make that remark now: there are too many
pretty women in the nice, tranquil old town. Just at this season it's
far from dull, and walking along the Esplanade, while young Nick mended
a tire, I understood something of George the Third's fondness for the
place. Certainly vanity wouldn't permit you to show your nose on parade
or beach, in these times, during the beard-growing process, for there's
apparently no hour of the day when a lively scene isn't being enacted on
both: the sands thickly dotted with tents; charming girls bathing,
chubby children playing, pretty women reading novels under red parasols,
fishermen selling silver-scaled fish, boatmen soliciting custom; the
parade crowded with "trippers," soldiers and sailors; the wide road
noisy with motor-cars and motor-'buses; even the sea gay with boats of
all descriptions, and at least one big war vessel hovering in the
distance. Besides, there is the clock-tower. I don't know why I like it
so much, but I do. I have a feeling that Weymouth would be worth a visit
for the sake of that clock alone; and then there's the extraordinary
historical and geological interest, which no other watering-place has.
Burden was anxious to go over to Portland, lured there, no doubt, by the
incipient detective talent of which he boasts; but the ladies voted it
too sad a place to see, on an excursion of pleasure, and perhaps they
were right. The sort of woman who would like to go and spend a happy
afternoon staring at a lot of unfortunate wretches dressed in a pattern
of broad arrows, would go "slumming" out of idle curiosity; and I have