Chapter XXIII

A day in September Mr. Bruno and his children came again to the little garden of firs. The news from South Africa had been such that he preferred to be in France with a view to winding up his affairs there in the event of an early return to England. And Daphne was glad to be out of Switzerland. She had not been able to bear the conversations of guests who mentioned places associated with Henry--the Urirotstock, the Rutli, the Furka Pass, the Mythen. All mountains hurt her.

On the doorstep Miss Carrell greeted the family, inquiring of Daphne:

"Have you had a nice holiday, dear?"

"Absolutely ripping," said Daphne.

And with this sickening lie she carried her wooden despair into the house.

A wooden despair it was, these first weeks. She would take her memories with her on lonely walks in the Montmorency Forest. Its autumnal lights pierced her. She made a pilgrimage to the grave to Géneviève Rollier in Taverney Churchyard; and now more than ever did the tawdry wreaths and the words "_A Man Epouse_," "_Nous ne t'oublierons jamais_," inflate her to pity. She really felt, as her father had encouraged her to feel, an infinite gentleness towards all the world.

"You can't reach to pain fully," said she, remembering some words of Henry's, "till you have suffered yourself." And she was aware of a little pride in her suffering.

She set to work again upon her book "Madame Rolland." There was a whole reservoir of manuscript to be distilled into some last shapely urn. But now, as she studied it--on the other side of her great experience--it seemed shallow, light, unfelt, invented. "Invention's the very opposite of creation," Henry had said; and this minute she saw its truth.

The clearer parts of her brain told her brutally what she ought to do. She ought to scrap every bit of this stuff, even though it were the product of two years' brain-bullying, because it had been written when her angle was all wrong, and would only go lumpy and formless if she tried so late to infiltrate it with truth. More, since Henry was always correct, she ought to postpone writing for publication till she had read much more and learned something of "the best that had been thought and written throughout the ages."

But could she do this? Could she scrap it all and postpone, even abandon, the thought of fame? No, the old Daphne of three months ago was too strong to be shed at once by this new creature of selfishness and consecration. She would re-fashion the book to meet her truer measures, but she must keep her eyes on fame. Next year, or the year after, she must make her little stir whose ripples would reach to Henry.

So she struggled on with "Madame Rolland," though sensible of compromise and conflict. The sceptic in the corner kept protesting, "In spite of me you're heading for one more blunder."

Another subject, besides her book and her settled sadness, found a small welcome at her door. This talk about war in South Africa--it was always dramatic. The letters of Owen, who had returned to Sillborough, were full of it. It was thrilling to read each morning in the English or French papers of the Boers' impudent ultimatum and the British Government's haughty refusal to discuss such terms; of the threatening mobilisation in the Orange Free State and the calling out of the reserves in England; of the last dark summoning of Parliament. But this interest was mild compared with her interest in her book. It occupied about the same relation to "Madame Rolland" as a bright little grocer's boy, calling every day, occupies to the mistress of a house.

This grocer's boy, however, came in and sat down in the best room during the days when war was declared. The English papers were better than any drama now, with their huge pictures of Sir Redvers Buller in his cocked hat, about whom she had misgivings because his chin receded, and of that old darling Oom Paul Kruger, who, with his curtain-fringe of beard and chimney-pot hat, was so ugly as to be perfectly sweet. The French papers, with their abuse of the English, were things to be read; and in a moment of patriotic fervour she was anxious to shake off the dust of her heels on such a rude country.

"I vote we go," said she to her father.

And her father shocked her by saying cold-bloodedly:

"But my sympathies, I'm afraid, are rather with Oom Paul than with Tante Victoria."

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, after a shriek of laughter at such a name for the venerable Queen, "how can you say such a thing? You're not a pro-Boer."

But all he did was to smile and murmur, "_Et tu, Daphne_."

"I don't see there's any _Et tu, Daphne_ about it. You can't think they're right."

"Neither side's ever perfectly right, dear. But that's no reason why the big man should start to pummel the little fellow and kick his posterior. Little men are always self-assertive or nobody'd notice them much.... However, the damage is done. And now it's for us to wonder how long our house and our lives will be safe among these emotional French." (Mr. Bruno knew there was nothing in this alarmist suggestion, but could not resist uttering it. His difference from the ordinary panic-monger was his ability to stand outside himself and laugh at his own delight.) "Supposing they burn our house about our heads."

"Will they really? How ripping! Is it going to be as exciting as that?"

"Who knows? The French are without some principle of balance. However, I shouldn't talk to Miss Carrell about these things; and certainly not to Hollins. Panic is a light sleeper in minds that have never been properly _trued_."

"Oh, no, I won't," promised Daphne, proud to be held of stabler make than Miss Carrell and Hollins, and impressed (as often during talks with her father) at the enormous number of defective people in the world. She was struck, too, at his originality in being a pro-Boer, and wondered whether to learn up the part and be one herself.

"Besides," Mr. Bruno concluded, "we shan't be able to keep up these two homes. No one'll buy any books."

The early and continued successes of the Boers, however, alienated his sympathy from them. It was as if he felt they were going too far. And one morning, on finishing his perusal of a smashing Boer victory, he turned to Daphne and said, "Well, dammit, I think we'd better win now," which relieved her considerably. Then they prepared to return to England. On a day in December, after the incredible defeats at Stormberg, Magersfontein and Colenso, the trunks of the Brunos were packed, labelled, and standing in the hall at St. Leu.

Daphne went for a farewell walk along the roads of the forest. The trees were quite bare, but many of the dead leaves still littered the paths. Though mid-afternoon, the sun-rays, slanting through the boles, had the sad effulgence of evening. Her random progress led her as far as the Pont de Diable and back upon her tracks. It was on this homeward stroll, just as she was nearing the edge of the trees, that she was abruptly withdrawn from her inward thinking by the sight of a man approaching her. The cut of his black overcoat and his height suggested that he was English. On his perceiving her he quickened his steps. It was Roger Muirhead surely. Yes, it was he; and tall and handsome he looked. He was now smiling recognition, and she replying with questioning eyebrows. That he had come in search of her was manifest, and the thought could only please. A rapid wonder passed by her mind: was she to be given at last the opportunity of saying, as she had always wished to do, "It's no good, Roger. I don't love you"? But now, in her dominant gentleness, she had lost the desire to say it. He mustn't be hurt like that. Not more than was inevitable. Less, much less, were it possible.... And while she thought these things she was smiling at him with questioning eyebrows.

"What on earth's produced you in these parts?"

Roger lifted his shoulders and looked embarrassed.

"Oh, I was in Paris ... and thought I might as well look you up. Your people at the house told me you were here, so I said I'd come and look for you ... as I've got to go back to Paris almost at once."

"It's awfully nice of you."

"Oh, no, it isn't.... At least ... Oh, I'd better tell you the reason why I've come. (May I walk back with you?) What do you think it is?"

"You've just said: to see us; to see some English friends who happen to be in the same strange land as you are in. I always find that people whom one would hardly know in England, if one meets them in a racket of foreigners, are one's best friends."

Roger gave silence to this as he walked by her side, and she feared she had hurt him more than she meant. So she hastily added:

"It's topping to see you."

"No--no--I ... Duffy, it was to find you, and you only, that I came." Her heart throbbed. "I wasn't really staying in Paris. I left England on the impulse of the moment last night, and I shall have to get back to-night."

She said nothing, but walked on with him, occasionally kicking at the dead leaves.

"Duffy, I've been in love with you ever since you appeared at that ball. No, please let me go on. I--I'm sure you were meant for me, because each time the first sight of you has been enough to make me fall in love with you. That blasted waltz--I've been humming it ever since, on purpose to work myself into a sad condition."

"But----" she began.

"No, please let me go on. This is what made me come out. I've joined Sinclair's Horse, and I'm going to South Africa almost immediately. I expect my orders for the front any day now. It's all been perfectly glorious except--well, I've been dreaming how splendid it would be if I could go out engaged to you. I can't bear to think of any one else walking off with you in the meantime.... So I resolved to charge straight at it.... Duffy, if we were engaged I should be able to write to you. And----"

"Roger, I'd give anything to be able to do what you ask, but I--I can't----" The words "I don't love you" should have come here, but she would not say them. The way of gentleness was to remove his castle brick by brick, not to shatter it at a blow. "I'll write to you, however, regularly...."

They walked on, she diverging him towards an opening in the trees, for he seemed unconscious or indifferent which direction he took. He must speak next; and it was a while before his answer came.

"Oh, Duffy, I know I've jumped it on you rather, but I was forced to, wasn't I? Do take that into consideration, and--I mean, it's a time for deciding things quickly and not spreading them over their usual period. I feel sure--I know you're destined to love me--you _did_ once--and I don't believe--I never have believed that you are absolutely without feeling for me now. Little things made me think----"

After all her indifference, of which she had been so proud, these words came as a sharp temptation--a temptation to say, "You're as wrong as you can be. I've no trace of love for you"; but she held them back. Sometimes it wasn't easy to be gentle....

"Duffy, do say you will be engaged to me."

"I can't, Roger.... We don't know each other well enough...."

"Exactly. I've never had a reasonable chance. I've only had two spells of acquaintance with you. And the very way we've been forced apart each time makes me think we're intended for one another. I believe that a fate waits for every man and that you are mine."

"Roger, you're incurably romantic, aren't you?"

This never offended him.

"Perhaps I am, if it's romantic to believe that. All I know is that I love you with all my heart and soul."

"I'm awfully sorry, Roger ... but I can't do what you ask.... I wish I were able to."

They were now out of the trees and walking down the slope to St. Leu. The nearing of the houses prompted Roger to say despairingly:

"Well, if you can't go as far as that, will you promise not to get engaged to any one else till I come back or am killed----?"

"Roger, you mustn't be killed. Don't say that."

He scarcely listened to her interruption.

"Duffy, promise me you won't get engaged to any one till I come back. The war can't last long. If we don't wipe up a few Dutch farmers in six months we shall be a poor set. Wait till I come back so that I can have the chance of a run with the others."

This was the humblest thing he had said, and it went to her heart.

"There'll be no others," she murmured.

"Of course there will be. As I told you once before, there'll always be heaps who want you. That's what makes me mad.... Throughout the journey here I was in mortal dread lest I should find you already engaged; and when I glanced at your finger just now and realised you were still unwon I believed in my fate again."

"Roger, you must get that idea out of your head.... It's a little sentimental, isn't it?"

This was to put it a different way. To be called romantic was pleasing, but to have his love and his faith dubbed sentimental had clearly injured his pride.

"Does that mean you won't promise me anything?"

"I am afraid so. It wouldn't be fair."

"All right." His face, as she always phrased it, had "tightened." They were at the bottom of the hill, and he put out his hand. "Well, good-bye."

"Come and have some tea with us," she said hastily.

"No, thanks. I must get back."

He took her hand coldly, and after a glance at his watch, murmured something and moved on in front of her. She watched him stride a little way and then, unable to let him go like that, ran hurriedly after him.

"Roger," she called.

"What?" He stopped and turned.

"I don't want you to go like that."

He smiled his wry smile.

"Well, there's no other way to go unless you do what I ask. And I'm not going to pester you for favours. I don't do that sort of thing easily.... You're the only person in my life I've ever humbled myself before. I shouldn't have done it if this war hadn't forced my hand. After all, I've kept this to myself for nearly two years."

"But Roger----"

"And I don't ask you to be engaged to me, but only to wait till I come back, so that I may have a fair run with the other fellows. It isn't much. The war won't go on for ever. Besides, I should be invalided or wounded sooner or later; or killed, which would relieve you of your promise."

"Roger, don't talk like that. If you'll promise not to think there's much chance of our ever getting married I'll promise to do what you asked."

"Duffy, you will?" There was almost a note of triumph in his voice. "Oh, thanks ... thanks awfully. It makes all the difference. You may call me romantic, if you like, but I shall feel now as if I were fighting to--to win through to you in spite of everything you say."

Having allowed a faint haze of falsity to arise it was useless to try dissipating it now. Best continue being kind.

"And you know you are not really bound to go by the midnight boat. Come back and see the family. It's all returning to England to-morrow, and you can meet us in Paris and look after Miss Carrell and Hollins as far as London, while I look after Father."

He met this with his grim smile; and, chatting naturally, though sometimes she caught him staring at her in admiration, they walked back to the house.

Roger's visit and request were at least flattering, and she wanted to tell some one about it. Especially since he had been such a success on the journey to London and had looked magnificent. Her father she could not tell, for he had seen her moving on her tragic plateau, and would feel that those who walked up there should walk above vanities. Miss Carrell? Was she right in suspecting that gentleness forbade unnecessary brag to Miss Carrell about offers of marriage? There was Hollins. She must tell Hollins. And in the evening following the day of their return to Old Hall House she begged the old servant to come and sit in the playroom and mend her stockings there. For twenty minutes she discussed a miscellany of topics, awaiting the propitious moment. And when they had reached the voyage of yesterday she asked:

"What did you think of Mr. Muirhead?"

Hollins pursed her mouth at the hole she was darning.

"Not much. I went to the door myself when he come, and before he could speak I thought, 'He's English.' They look quite different, don't they? They look gentlemen. But this one struck me as having rather a sort of condescending tone, if you know what I mean."

"Do you know what he came for?"

"He said he happened to be around and knew you but not the master, so I sent him after you."

"You didn't know what you were sending, did you? If I tell you what he really came for will you promise not to tell any one?"

Hollins, perceiving the glimmer of an interesting revelation, laid down her stocking. What it was she probably had no idea, still thinking of her young mistress as a schoolgirl.

"Of course I won't say anything if you tell me not to."

"He came to ask me to marry him."

"Miss Duffy! Good gracious! ... But I never knew there was anything between you. I never seen him before. Good gracious.... I'm sorry I said I didn't quite take to him, first go off, as you might say. It was only his manner, and I suppose it was natural for him to think I was an ordinary servant.... Lord.... Miss Duffy!"

"Don't get excited. I refused him.... But I _did_ promise not to get engaged to any one else till he comes back. He's going to the war, you see."

"But he isn't a soldier, is he?"

"Not professionally. He's Sir Roger Muirhead's son."

"Then what's he want to go out there for?"

"Oh, a lot of men besides the regulars are going now."

"Are they? I don't know what they're up to. Aren't there enough soldiers? It seems we're getting beat everywhere. Well, I hope your Mr. Moorhead'll teach them Boers a lesson. They appear to fight pretty dirty, waving white flags and all that."

"Oh, I think that's largely made up."

"Oh, no, it isn't. I seen it in the papers yesterday."

"Well, the French papers tell a very different story."

"They _would_, 'ating us as they do, and being a race of liars, as far as I can make out."

"Personally, I rather admire the Boers and think they're putting up a jolly plucky fight."

Hollins took up her stocking again with an unbelieving smile and a shake of the head.

"No, Miss Duffy, that won't do. You ain't a pro-Boer, as they say. One can't hold with English people as says the other side is right. Not that I ever met any who did, and I don't believe they're proper English at all. But lor! to think of that young gentleman asking you to marry him!" This was obviously the more interesting subject to her. "To think that all that sort of thing's beginning.... Why, it seems only yesterday that the bell rang and the noos come to your father as how he'd got a little daughter. And then when your mamma asked for you to be brought to her, before she passed away--it don't seem twenty years." She stopped her darning to scratch her head with the needle. "Funny you're not in the least like her. She was fair and small and timid like. Lor! I remember I used to say that with your eyes you'd soon have the young men hanging around. And now it's comin' to pass. I used to say your eyes is your trump card...."

"Yes, but they're the only trump I've got," grumbled Daphne. "Otherwise I've a putrid hand."

"It don't look like it, do it?" smiled Hollins, "seeing that there's been one after you before you're twenty. And such a handsome one, too." She folded up the completed pair of stockings and pushed her wooden ball into the heel of one of Mr. Bruno's socks. "What I always says is, Life's a funny business. The noos come that you'd arrived at that there horrible home, and you're brought to the hall door, where I met you carried in; and then time passed with cooking and washing and mending, and you in the house growing so naturally that one hardly noticed your growing at all or worried about it--and now you're going to disappear out of the hall door into another life. Seems strange somehow."