Chapter VI: Book THE FIRST: George Somerset (5)

The secret was out when in answer to his question, idly put, if she wished she were like one of these, she said, with exceptional vehemence for one of her demeanour--

‘I don’t wish I was like one of them: I wish I WAS one of them.’

‘What--you wish you were a De Stancy?’

‘Yes. It is very dreadful to be denounced as a barbarian. I want to be romantic and historical.’

‘Miss De Stancy seems not to value the privilege,’ he said, looking round at another part of the church where Charlotte was innocently prattling to Mrs. Goodman, quite heedless of the tombs of her forefathers.

‘If I were one,’ she continued, ‘I should come here when I feel alone in the world, as I do to-day; and I would defy people, and say, “You cannot spoil what has been!”’

They walked on till they reached the old black pew attached to the castle--a vast square enclosure of oak panelling occupying half the aisle, and surmounted with a little balustrade above the framework. Within, the baize lining that had once been green, now faded to the colour of a common in August, was torn, kicked and scraped to rags by the feet and hands of the ploughboys who had appropriated the pew as their own special place of worship since it had ceased to be used by any resident at the castle, because its height afforded convenient shelter for playing at marbles and pricking with pins.

Charlotte and Mrs. Goodman had by this time left the building, and could be seen looking at the headstones outside.

‘If you were a De Stancy,’ said Somerset, who had pondered more deeply upon that new wish of hers than he had seemed to do, ‘you would be a churchwoman, and sit here.’

‘And I should have the pew done up,’ she said readily, as she rested her pretty chin on the top rail and looked at the interior, her cheeks pressed into deep dimples. Her quick reply told him that the idea was no new one with her, and he thought of poor Mr. Woodwell’s shrewd prophecy as he perceived that her days as a separatist were numbered.

‘Well, why can’t you have it done up, and sit here?’ he said warily.

Paula shook her head.

‘You are not at enmity with Anglicanism, I am sure?’

‘I want not to be. I want to be--what--’

‘What the De Stancys were, and are,’ he said insidiously; and her silenced bearing told him that he had hit the nail.

It was a strange idea to get possession of such a nature as hers, and for a minute he felt himself on the side of the minister. So strong was Somerset’s feeling of wishing her to show the quality of fidelity to paternal dogma and party, that he could not help adding--

‘But have you forgotten that other nobility--the nobility of talent and enterprise?’

‘No. But I wish I had a well-known line of ancestors.’

‘You have. Archimedes, Newcomen, Watt, Telford, Stephenson, those are your father’s direct ancestors. Have you forgotten them? Have you forgotten your father, and the railways he made over half Europe, and his great energy and skill, and all connected with him as if he had never lived?’

She did not answer for some time. ‘No, I have not forgotten it,’ she said, still looking into the pew. ‘But, I have a predilection d’artiste for ancestors of the other sort, like the De Stancys.’

Her hand was resting on the low pew next the high one of the De Stancys. Somerset looked at the hand, or rather at the glove which covered it, then at her averted cheek, then beyond it into the pew, then at her hand again, until by an indescribable consciousness that he was not going too far he laid his own upon it.

‘No, no,’ said Paula quickly, withdrawing her hand. But there was nothing resentful or haughty in her tone--nothing, in short, which makes a man in such circumstances feel that he has done a particularly foolish action.

The flower on her bosom rose and fell somewhat more than usual as she added, ‘I am going away now--I will leave you here.’ Without waiting for a reply she adroitly swept back her skirts to free her feet and went out of the church blushing.

Somerset took her hint and did not follow; and when he knew that she had rejoined her friends, and heard the carriage roll away, he made towards the opposite door. Pausing to glance once more at the alabaster effigies before leaving them to their silence and neglect, he beheld Dare bending over them, to all appearance intently occupied.

He must have been in the church some time--certainly during the tender episode between Somerset and Paula, and could not have failed to perceive it. Somerset blushed: it was unpleasant that Dare should have seen the interior of his heart so plainly. He went across and said, ‘I think I left you to finish the drawing of the north wing, Mr. Dare?’

‘Three hours ago, sir,’ said Dare. ‘Having finished that, I came to look at the church--fine building--fine monuments--two interesting people looking at them.’

‘What?’

‘I stand corrected. Pensa molto, parla poco, as the Italians have it.’

‘Well, now, Mr. Dare, suppose you get back to the castle?’

‘Which history dubs Castle Stancy.... Certainly.’

‘How do you get on with the measuring?’

Dare sighed whimsically. ‘Badly in the morning, when I have been tempted to indulge overnight, and worse in the afternoon, when I have been tempted in the morning!’

Somerset looked at the youth, and said, ‘I fear I shall have to dispense with your services, Dare, for I think you have been tempted to-day.’

‘On my honour no. My manner is a little against me, Mr. Somerset. But you need not fear for my ability to do your work. I am a young man wasted, and am thought of slight account: it is the true men who get snubbed, while traitors are allowed to thrive!’

‘Hang sentiment, Dare, and off with you!’ A little ruffled, Somerset had turned his back upon the interesting speaker, so that he did not observe the sly twist Dare threw into his right eye as he spoke. The latter went off in one direction and Somerset in the other, pursuing his pensive way towards Markton with thoughts not difficult to divine.

From one point in her nature he went to another, till he again recurred to her romantic interest in the De Stancy family. To wish she was one of them: how very inconsistent of her. That she really did wish it was unquestionable.

XV.

It was the day of the garden-party. The weather was too cloudy to be called perfect, but it was as sultry as the most thinly-clad young lady could desire. Great trouble had been taken by Paula to bring the lawn to a fit condition after the neglect of recent years, and Somerset had suggested the design for the tents. As he approached the precincts of the castle he discerned a flag of newest fabric floating over the keep, and soon his fly fell in with the stream of carriages that were passing over the bridge into the outer ward.

Mrs. Goodman and Paula were receiving the people in the drawing-room. Somerset came forward in his turn; but as he was immediately followed by others there was not much opportunity, even had she felt the wish, for any special mark of feeling in the younger lady’s greeting of him.

He went on through a canvas passage, lined on each side with flowering plants, till he reached the tents; thence, after nodding to one or two guests slightly known to him, he proceeded to the grounds, with a sense of being rather lonely. Few visitors had as yet got so far in, and as he walked up and down a shady alley his mind dwelt upon the new aspect under which Paula had greeted his eyes that afternoon. Her black-and-white costume had finally disappeared, and in its place she had adopted a picturesque dress of ivory white, with satin enrichments of the same hue; while upon her bosom she wore a blue flower. Her days of infestivity were plainly ended, and her days of gladness were to begin.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of his name, and looking round he beheld Havill, who appeared to be as much alone as himself.

Somerset already knew that Havill had been appointed to compete with him, according to his recommendation. In measuring a dark corner a day or two before, he had stumbled upon Havill engaged in the same pursuit with a view to the rival design. Afterwards he had seen him receiving Paula’s instructions precisely as he had done himself. It was as he had wished, for fairness’ sake: and yet he felt a regret, for he was less Paula’s own architect now.

‘Well, Mr. Somerset,’ said Havill, ‘since we first met an unexpected rivalry has arisen between us! But I dare say we shall survive the contest, as it is not one arising out of love. Ha-ha-ha!’ He spoke in a level voice of fierce pleasantry, and uncovered his regular white teeth.

Somerset supposed him to allude to the castle competition?

‘Yes,’ said Havill. ‘Her proposed undertaking brought out some adverse criticism till it was known that she intended to have more than one architectural opinion. An excellent stroke of hers to disarm criticism. You saw the second letter in the morning papers?’

‘No,’ said the other.

‘The writer states that he has discovered that the competent advice of two architects is to be taken, and withdraws his accusations.’

Somerset said nothing for a minute. ‘Have you been supplied with the necessary data for your drawings?’ he asked, showing by the question the track his thoughts had taken.

Havill said that he had. ‘But possibly not so completely as you have,’ he added, again smiling fiercely. Somerset did not quite like the insinuation, and the two speakers parted, the younger going towards the musicians, who had now begun to fill the air with their strains from the embowered enclosure of a drooping ash. When he got back to the marquees they were quite crowded, and the guests began to pour out upon the grass, the toilets of the ladies presenting a brilliant spectacle--here being coloured dresses with white devices, there white dresses with coloured devices, and yonder transparent dresses with no device at all. A lavender haze hung in the air, the trees were as still as those of a submarine forest; while the sun, in colour like a brass plaque, had a hairy outline in the livid sky.

After watching awhile some young people who were so madly devoted to lawn-tennis that they set about it like day-labourers at the moment of their arrival, he turned and saw approaching a graceful figure in cream-coloured hues, whose gloves lost themselves beneath her lace ruffles, even when she lifted her hand to make firm the blue flower at her breast, and whose hair hung under her hat in great knots so well compacted that the sun gilded the convexity of each knot like a ball.

‘You seem to be alone,’ said Paula, who had at last escaped from the duty of receiving guests.

‘I don’t know many people.’

‘Yes: I thought of that while I was in the drawing-room. But I could not get out before. I am now no longer a responsible being: Mrs. Goodman is mistress for the remainder of the day. Will you be introduced to anybody? Whom would you like to know?’

‘I am not particularly unhappy in my solitude.’

‘But you must be made to know a few.’

‘Very well--I submit readily.’

She looked away from him, and while he was observing upon her cheek the moving shadow of leaves cast by the declining sun, she said, ‘O, there is my aunt,’ and beckoned with her parasol to that lady, who approached in the comparatively youthful guise of a grey silk dress that whistled at every touch.

Paula left them together, and Mrs. Goodman then made him acquainted with a few of the best people, describing what they were in a whisper before they came up, among them being the Radical member for Markton, who had succeeded to the seat rendered vacant by the death of Paula’s father. While talking to this gentleman on the proposed enlargement of the castle, Somerset raised his eyes and hand towards the walls, the better to point out his meaning; in so doing he saw a face in the square of darkness formed by one of the open windows, the effect being that of a highlight portrait by Vandyck or Rembrandt.

It was his assistant Dare, leaning on the window-sill of the studio, as he smoked his cigarette and surveyed the gay groups promenading beneath.

After holding a chattering conversation with some ladies from a neighbouring country seat who had known his father in bygone years, and handing them ices and strawberries till they were satisfied, he found an opportunity of leaving the grounds, wishing to learn what progress Dare had made in the survey of the castle.

Dare was still in the studio when he entered. Somerset informed the youth that there was no necessity for his working later that day, unless to please himself, and proceeded to inspect Dare’s achievements thus far. To his vexation Dare had not plotted three dimensions during the previous two days. This was not the first time that Dare, either from incompetence or indolence, had shown his inutility as a house-surveyor and draughtsman.

‘Mr. Dare,’ said Somerset, ‘I fear you don’t suit me well enough to make it necessary that you should stay after this week.’

Dare removed the cigarette from his lips and bowed. ‘If I don’t suit, the sooner I go the better; why wait the week?’ he said.

‘Well, that’s as you like.’

Somerset drew the inkstand towards him, wrote out a cheque for Dare’s services, and handed it across the table.

‘I’ll not trouble you to-morrow,’ said Dare, seeing that the payment included the week in advance.

‘Very well,’ replied Somerset. ‘Please lock the door when you leave.’ Shaking hands with Dare and wishing him well, he left the room and descended to the lawn below.

There he contrived to get near Miss Power again, and inquired of her for Miss De Stancy.

‘O! did you not know?’ said Paula; ‘her father is unwell, and she preferred staying with him this afternoon.’

‘I hoped he might have been here.’

‘O no; he never comes out of his house to any party of this sort; it excites him, and he must not be excited.’

‘Poor Sir William!’ muttered Somerset.

‘No,’ said Paula, ‘he is grand and historical.’

‘That is hardly an orthodox notion for a Puritan,’ said Somerset mischievously.

‘I am not a Puritan,’ insisted Paula.

The day turned to dusk, and the guests began going in relays to the dining-hall. When Somerset had taken in two or three ladies to whom he had been presented, and attended to their wants, which occupied him three-quarters of an hour, he returned again to the large tent, with a view to finding Paula and taking his leave. It was now brilliantly lighted up, and the musicians, who during daylight had been invisible behind the ash-tree, were ensconced at one end with their harps and violins. It reminded him that there was to be dancing. The tent had in the meantime half filled with a new set of young people who had come expressly for that pastime. Behind the girls gathered numbers of newly arrived young men with low shoulders and diminutive moustaches, who were evidently prepared for once to sacrifice themselves as partners.

Somerset felt something of a thrill at the sight. He was an infrequent dancer, and particularly unprepared for dancing at present; but to dance once with Paula Power he would give a year of his life. He looked round; but she was nowhere to be seen. The first set began; old and middle-aged people gathered from the different rooms to look on at the gyrations of their children, but Paula did not appear. When another dance or two had progressed, and an increase in the average age of the dancers was making itself perceptible, especially on the masculine side, Somerset was aroused by a whisper at his elbow--

‘You dance, I think? Miss Deverell is disengaged. She has not been asked once this evening.’ The speaker was Paula.

Somerset looked at Miss Deverell--a sallow lady with black twinkling eyes, yellow costume, and gay laugh, who had been there all the afternoon--and said something about having thought of going home.

‘Is that because I asked you to dance?’ she murmured. ‘There--she is appropriated.’ A young gentleman had at that moment approached the uninviting Miss Deverell, claimed her hand and led her off.

‘That’s right,’ said Somerset. ‘I ought to leave room for younger men.’

‘You need not say so. That bald-headed gentleman is forty-five. He does not think of younger men.’

‘Have YOU a dance to spare for me?’

Her face grew stealthily redder in the candle-light. ‘O!--I have no engagement at all--I have refused. I hardly feel at liberty to dance; it would be as well to leave that to my visitors.’

‘Why?’

‘My father, though he allowed me to be taught, never liked the idea of my dancing.’

‘Did he make you promise anything on the point?’

‘He said he was not in favour of such amusements--no more.’

‘I think you are not bound by that, on an informal occasion like the present.’

She was silent.

‘You will just once?’ said he.

Another silence. ‘If you like,’ she venturesomely answered at last.

Somerset closed the hand which was hanging by his side, and somehow hers was in it. The dance was nearly formed, and he led her forward. Several persons looked at them significantly, but he did not notice it then, and plunged into the maze.

Never had Mr. Somerset passed through such an experience before. Had he not felt her actual weight and warmth, he might have fancied the whole episode a figment of the imagination. It seemed as if those musicians had thrown a double sweetness into their notes on seeing the mistress of the castle in the dance, that a perfumed southern atmosphere had begun to pervade the marquee, and that human beings were shaking themselves free of all inconvenient gravitation.

Somerset’s feelings burst from his lips. ‘This is the happiest moment I have ever known,’ he said. ‘Do you know why?’

‘I think I saw a flash of lightning through the opening of the tent,’ said Paula, with roguish abruptness.

He did not press for an answer. Within a few minutes a long growl of thunder was heard. It was as if Jove could not refrain from testifying his jealousy of Somerset for taking this covetable woman so presumptuously in his arms.

The dance was over, and he had retired with Paula to the back of the tent, when another faint flash of lightning was visible through an opening. She lifted the canvas, and looked out, Somerset looking out behind her. Another dance was begun, and being on this account left out of notice, Somerset did not hasten to leave Paula’s side.

‘I think they begin to feel the heat,’ she said.

‘A little ventilation would do no harm.’ He flung back the tent door where he stood, and the light shone out upon the grass.

‘I must go to the drawing-room soon,’ she added. ‘They will begin to leave shortly.’

‘It is not late. The thunder-cloud has made it seem dark--see there; a line of pale yellow stretches along the horizon from west to north. That’s evening--not gone yet. Shall we go into the fresh air for a minute?’

She seemed to signify assent, and he stepped off the tent-floor upon the ground. She stepped off also.

The air out-of-doors had not cooled, and without definitely choosing a direction they found themselves approaching a little wooden tea-house that stood on the lawn a few yards off. Arrived here, they turned, and regarded the tent they had just left, and listened to the strains that came from within it.

‘I feel more at ease now,’ said Paula.

‘So do I,’ said Somerset.

‘I mean,’ she added in an undeceiving tone, ‘because I saw Mrs. Goodman enter the tent again just as we came out here; so I have no further responsibility.’

‘I meant something quite different. Try to guess what.’

She teasingly demurred, finally breaking the silence by saying, ‘The rain is come at last,’ as great drops began to fall upon the ground with a smack, like pellets of clay.

In a moment the storm poured down with sudden violence, and they drew further back into the summer-house. The side of the tent from which they had emerged still remained open, the rain streaming down between their eyes and the lighted interior of the marquee like a tissue of glass threads, the brilliant forms of the dancers passing and repassing behind the watery screen, as if they were people in an enchanted submarine palace.

‘How happy they are!’ said Paula. ‘They don’t even know that it is raining. I am so glad that my aunt had the tent lined; otherwise such a downpour would have gone clean through it.’

The thunder-storm showed no symptoms of abatement, and the music and dancing went on more merrily than ever.

‘We cannot go in,’ said Somerset. ‘And we cannot shout for umbrellas. We will stay till it is over, will we not?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if you care to. Ah!’

‘What is it?’

‘Only a big drop came upon my head.’

‘Let us stand further in.’

Her hand was hanging by her side, and Somerset’s was close by. He took it, and she did not draw it away. Thus they stood a long while, the rain hissing down upon the grass-plot, and not a soul being visible outside the dancing-tent save themselves.

‘May I call you Paula?’ asked he.

There was no answer.

‘May I?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, occasionally,’ she murmured.

‘Dear Paula!--may I call you that?’

‘O no--not yet.’

‘But you know I love you?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘And shall I love you always?’

‘If you wish to.’

‘And will you love me?’

Paula did not reply.

‘Will you, Paula?’ he repeated.

‘You may love me.’

‘But don’t you love me in return?’

‘I love you to love me.’

‘Won’t you say anything more explicit?’

‘I would rather not.’

Somerset emitted half a sigh: he wished she had been more demonstrative, yet felt that this passive way of assenting was as much as he could hope for. Had there been anything cold in her passivity he might have felt repressed; but her stillness suggested the stillness of motion imperceptible from its intensity.

‘We must go in,’ said she. ‘The rain is almost over, and there is no longer any excuse for this.’

Somerset bent his lips toward hers. ‘No,’ said the fair Puritan decisively.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Nobody ever has.’

‘But!--’ expostulated Somerset.

‘To everything there is a season, and the season for this is not just now,’ she answered, walking away.

They crossed the wet and glistening lawn, stepped under the tent and parted. She vanished, he did not know whither; and, standing with his gaze fixed on the dancers, the young man waited, till, being in no mood to join them, he went slowly through the artificial passage lined with flowers, and entered the drawing room. Mrs. Goodman was there, bidding good-night to the early goers, and Paula was just behind her, apparently in her usual mood. His parting with her was quite formal, but that he did not mind, for her colour rose decidedly higher as he approached, and the light in her eyes was like the ray of a diamond.

When he reached the door he found that his brougham from the Quantock Arms, which had been waiting more than an hour, could not be heard of. That vagrancy of spirit which love induces would not permit him to wait; and, leaving word that the man was to follow him when he returned, he went past the glare of carriage-lamps ranked in the ward, and under the outer arch. The night was now clear and beautiful, and he strolled along his way full of mysterious elation till the vehicle overtook him, and he got in.

Up to this point Somerset’s progress in his suit had been, though incomplete, so uninterrupted, that he almost feared the good chance he enjoyed. How should it be in a mortal of his calibre to command success with such a sweet woman for long? He might, indeed, turn out to be one of the singular exceptions which are said to prove rules; but when fortune means to men most good, observes the bard, she looks upon them with a threatening eye. Somerset would even have been content that a little disapproval of his course should have occurred in some quarter, so as to make his wooing more like ordinary life. But Paula was not clearly won, and that was drawback sufficient. In these pleasing agonies and painful delights he passed the journey to Markton.